


even as a shadow, even as a dream

by ABaskerville



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Mating Bond, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:53:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23539414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ABaskerville/pseuds/ABaskerville
Summary: The girl was light as snow in his arms, her breath barely a stir in the wind. Each pulse of her heart made the smell of cinnamon and hearth fire come off stronger until every part of him yearned for her to open her eyes, even as the rest of him shrank back in fear darker than death.
Relationships: Azriel (ACoTaR)/Original Female Character(s), Azriel (ACoTaR)/Reader, Elain Archeron/Lucien Vanserra, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Nesta Archeron/Cassian
Comments: 50
Kudos: 225





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This picks up sometime after ACOMAF. Feyre has returned to the Spring Court, while the Night Court tries to recover.

Silver spilled through the open window. The moon was high on a clear evening sky, nearly blotting out the stars. Beneath it, the snow-capped mountains nearly glowed.

A shiver went through you as a wintry breeze drifts in, carrying snowflakes that the pigeon on the windowsill shrugged off. It had a sliver of ribbon still tied on one leg. The ribbon was once white, now red with dried blood. The little note it had carried was just the size of your pinky, but its message was clear.

_We have been betrayed._

The door slammed open behind you, accompanied by heavy panting.

“My lady–” The man collapsed on one knee beside you. “You must go. They are coming for you, we don’t know why–”

You proffered the note to him. He read it with wild eyes, all color draining from his face, before he tossed it away and grabbed your wrist.

“There is no time, we must–”

You twisted out of his grasp with one flick of your wrist. “No, there isn’t.”

You pulled the coat around your nightgown close, and drifted toward the open door.

“Where are you going?” he rasped as you went down the opposite direction. “Macon will be waiting with the horses.” When you neither turned nor answered, he skidded past you, arms held up.

You met his concerned face, and softened a little. Hugo, young and loyal and the son of your family’s captain of the guards, had been a lifelong companion. Too often, you forget he served you.

Reaching out, you pulled his arms down, and pinned them at his sides. “You and your father have been a comfort to us. I am sorry we must part like this.”

“What are you–?”

You snapped the iron necklace resting on his chest. “I release you from your oaths. Go, and live well.”

Hearing the clatter of soldiers from the floor below, you rushed past, fist clenched around the necklace, drawing strength from the outline of your family’s crest.

Near the end of the hall, you pressed on a panel, and a door opened, revealing stairs going down into darkness. A shadow fell over you as Hugo squeezed in before the door closed.

“What are you doing?” you hissed, voice menacing in the complete darkness. “You are no longer bound to me.”

“I follow you now of my own free will,” he said stonily.

“You follow me to your death.”

“That too.”

The clatter of boots and swords being drawn rang ominous in the inside walls, signaling that they’d reached your floor. You put your hand against the cold stone and felt your way down. It was dangerous without a light, but you would know this path with your eyes closed. Hugo’s breath reminded you of his presence some paces behind.

At a fork in the tunnels, you grabbed his sleeve and turned left, down a long corridor, another stair, until finally, a wall. You stepped out into the throne room, startling a pair of maids. They screamed out of the room while you made for the gilded seat of power at the other end.

“Why here?” Hugo asked when you stopped at the dais.

You closed your eyes, and recited the passage from the journals of the 34th queen of your kingdom.

 _As a token of goodwill, the fae imbued their power into the stones of the palace, protecting it from all their magic thereafter. So long as the heart of the palace is unbreached, so will these walls stand_.

Slow clapping filled the room. “I must say, I didn’t think your family would have the guts to be part of this.”

You turned, drawing yourself into your full height while Hugo drew his sword beside you. Through the massive double doors, the old queen glided in with a complement of soldiers. A smile spread on her weathered face.

Once, you had looked upon her years as a sign of wisdom. Now, all you can see is envy and mortal fear. For immortality, she would bargain away her title, and kneel at the feet of a usurper.

“My dear girl,” she said, “My dear niece. Let’s not take too long about this. I have a meeting with Hybern tomorrow, and I want to get some rest.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to cancel, dear aunt, for you will not be able to receive them,” you answered evenly.

She laughed, and held out her palm. A captain marched toward her, handing over a folded cloth. She took its edge between a gloved forefinger and thumb, shaking out the scorched remains of your house’s banner, a shield over a tower. It was the counterpart to her own insignia, twin swords over a crown.

Fury blazed in your chest.

_Where you have failed your duty, I will not._

You held up the iron crest taken from Hugo, pressed the cool metal on your lips, then pushed your thumb at the amber jewel at its heart. A small blade slipped out at the end.

She caught the glint of it in the moonlight, and dropped the flag, trampling it underfoot as she resumed toward you. “You stupid brat, do you think you could fight your way out of this? Your family is dead, and soon, you shall–”

“Queen Nacola, you have betrayed your sacred duty to protect your people.” Hugo jerked as you fell to your knees, the stone sending a reverberation through your bones. “The penalty for that is death.”

Your aunt didn’t know what you were doing, for it was a secret long buried, and rediscovered by chance, but she was running now, shouting orders through the length of the great room. Archers were rushing in front, fitting bolts into bows.

“Stop!” Nacola shrieked.

Please let this work, you prayed to the Mother.

You met your aunt’s eyes through the distance – then plunged the blade into your belly. You felt it slide in easily, felt the blood well up warm and red on your gown and your hand, filled with your youth, your life, dripping all the way down to the marbles.

Hugo stepped forward to block the first arrow, then the second, bringing him to his knees as well. In the gathering darkness of your vision, you heard a great crack, like an avalanche, like a mountain breaking apart. Blue light, like fire, erupted on the walls, while the magic pulled on your wrists, on your legs, holding you down to the ground as it shuddered like a woken beast, drinking in your essence.

There were worst ways to die, you supposed.

Rhysand jerked off the tree, shoulders tense as he looked at the castle. Azriel went to stand beside him, scanning the stone edifice for whatever had caught his High Lord’s attention. Everything was as still as it had been in the last hour.

His chest ached with even such a small movement, but he hid it behind a mask. It shamed him enough that Rhysand had felt the need to babysit him, following him to his mission after he’d disobeyed orders to rest.

“I won’t lose another member of my family,” the High Lord had said darkly when he’d winnowed right at Azriel’s side.

It’d been a week since the altercation with the King of Hybern, and he knew he thought of Feyre. Their High Lady was now in the midst of enemies, risking her life for theirs while her sisters recovered with difficulty in ruined Velaris – all because of his failure.

And it had been his failure. He was the Night Court’s spymaster. That they’d walked into a trap was all on him, no matter what the others said.

So if Elain had been screaming in the night, dreaming of an inferno swallowing this kingdom, he had to know why. War was coming. They needed to know everything they could.

“What is that?” Rhysand whispered, brows crinkling in apprehension as his eyes swept the landscape.

Azriel let his consciousness flow further out to his watching shadows, seeking out the source of the problem. _There, on the palace_. Its walls had started glow. He and Rhysand peered closer, their wings shuddering in the rising wind, ready for some unseen danger.

All sound disappeared. The rustle of trees, the chatter of nocturnal creatures, even the hum of their breaths. Then he felt something wrap its hands on his chest, pulling him forward.

“What is–” he started.

A blast of scorching magic exploded in the valley, crushing the immediate mountainside, uprooting the edges of the forest. He vaguely felt Rhysand grab his shoulder before they winked out of existence, only to reappear high in the clouds, at the upper edges of the cataclysm. Far below, the castle had been torn apart, and where its old stones had been thrown, there was blue fire that burned so hot he could feel it on his face.

“Is it Hybern?” he asked Rhysand.

“No,” Rhysand answered. “No, this is…this is like Amren’s magic, and yet– _pure_.”

“Then there must be another threat we aren’t aware of.”

Rhysand looked at him, sensing his darkening mood. “It can’t be so bad. If the queen was there, then it had taken one of Hybern’s allies off the war, at least for some time. The transition of power will derail some of their plans.”

Azriel wrapped his shadows around him, so that his face was hidden. “Let us hope so.”

The fire took some time to diffuse, despite the snow that had begun to fall harder, for it seemed determined to leave nothing but ashes. By the time he and Rhysand could land, there was a black smear in a frost covered land. What remained that resembled shape crumbled into ash at the slightest disturbance. It was obvious that nothing could’ve survived, and yet he knew that they lingered because they were looking for some clue as to what could possibly have unleashed such destruction.

_Please let it be something on our side. Or if not, then at least not against us._

At the center of the wreckage was a particularly reticent form, blue sparks still on its black surface. To his surprise, it did not blow away in a shower of ash when Rhysand landed beside him with a powerful blast of his wings, but shifted quite solidly–

“Az?” came Rhysand’s voice at his shoulder.

Rhysand drew a sharp breath as pale flesh peered out of the white snow and black soot. It was a figure, a girl, curled up in the wreckage, bare but unharmed.

Rhysand bent forward to study her while Azriel looked around them for danger. There was an incredible calm all around, the kind that only existed when some great destruction had occurred. The world was holding its breath.

“What is it?” he said lowly.

“Human,” Rhysand answered skeptically.

A soft exhale, and the flutter of eyelashes.

The girl opened her eyes, bright blue like the fire that destroyed everything around them. She looked under heavy lids at Rhysand, then at him.

For the second time that night, Azriel felt the wind taken out of him. The night seemed to press in on all sides, narrowing into a space too small to contain him. His ears stoppered, his heart skipped a beat, and he could see nothing but her face, soft, smeared with ash and snow, terrible and devastating.

 _Mine_.

The High Lord of the Night Court leaned closer, unaware of the bond that had thrummed into life. A growl escaped Azriel’s chest.

 _Mine_.

Rhysand looked back in surprise, confused by his reaction but aware of the threat in it. Red flashed behind Azriel’s vision at the power Rhysand pulled around him, his own lashing at his control to tear it down.

He’s distracted by the smallest movement, the girl’s fingers lifting imperceivably toward him. His own hand started to reach out, tracing an invisible thread between them. Then a great shudder overtook her, and she slumped lifelessly once more. The bond slackened, slumbered. Azriel jerked at the suddenness of it, alarm rising steadily at the sudden emptiness, until he realized her chest still rose and fell.

The full realization of what had happened crashed over him.

This human–

Fragile and mortal and _my mate–_

_Mine._

They winnowed back into Velaris, then flew into the House of Wind, startling those of the Inner Court who waited for them there.

Azriel’s wings burst out protectively over him and the girl he carried as Mor and Cassian dropped their dinner and ran toward them. The unexpected ferocity of his reaction made them pause. Amren hung back with narrowed eyes.

“Nuala! Cerridwen!” Rhysand called out.

Nuala and Cerridwen floated in like smoke, took one look at the unconscious girl, and raised their arms to take her. Azriel forced out a quiet ‘no’.

Rhysand looked at him sharply, then understood. Rhysand waved everyone aside to clear their departure from the room.

Azriel could hear their voices rising urgently as the doors closed behind, but it was a far-off concern. The girl was light, light as snow, in his arms, her breath barely a stir in the wind. Each pulse of her heart made the smell of cinnamon and hearth fire come off stronger until every part of him yearned for her to open her eyes, even as the rest of him shrank back in fear.

Nuala and Cerridwen opened a door, and swept inside, drawing curtains and pulling back the sheets. He laid her as softly as he could and stood back, hands useless at his sides, transfixed at her face, memorizing over and over the curve of her cheek, the bow of her lips.

Nuala nearly tripped over him as he started moving toward her again, unaware he was doing so.

He ducked his head at the half-wraith in a wordless apology, then stalked out, feeling something trying to claw out of his throat. Bile. Maybe a scream. He put out his hand at the wall and tried to steady himself, almost jumping when a shadow that wasn’t his moved close.

Amren folded her arms where she leaned against the same wall, studying him. There was an air about her then that was distinctly at odds with the form she maintains, and he felt skinned from her attention, bared of all his secrets.

“She’s not even awake and your composure is in shreds,” she said.

Azriel held his breath, counted, then exhaled. With painful effort, he pushed away the memory of the girl’s body pressed against his, crushed the desire to go back and hold her until she woke up, to be the first one she sees.

He straightened, and drew his shadows closer, put the mask back on.

She stared at him for a long time, perhaps testing his control. He refused to give in. Instead, he built back the wall in his head and his heart until they were as unbreachable as before.

“Why are you here?” he asked after a long time.

“Rhysand wasn’t sure you’d be able to walk away.” Finally, Amren pushed off and walked back down the hall. “He’s called a meeting. A message arrived while you were away.”

Rhysand paced by the balcony, reading over and over a short message.

“So what does it say?” Cassian prompted as soon as Azriel was in. He was addressing Rhysand, but his eyes were on Azriel, a question in his eyes.

Azriel shook his head minutely. There will be time for this later.

“It’s from the black queen,” Rhysand answered, stopping. He faced them, a pillar against the star-strewn sky. “Apparently, the incident last week had shown them a side of Hybern that they hadn’t seen before, and exposed agendas from the other queens that they did not agree with. They want the alliance after all.”

Mor leaned back on a couch, arms folded as she frowned over the news. “Normally I won’t even entertain the notion, but if they were responsible for killing another queen…”

Rhysand’s mouth was a thin line. “It might just be a coincidence.”

“So how do we know?”

Amren set eyes that glinted like knife-points on Azriel. “We ask the only one who survived the wreckage.”


	2. Chapter 2

You woke in the dead of night, soft moonlight filtering through a pair of windows on either side of the bed. Silk slid over your skin as you propped yourself on your elbow, considering the unfamiliar room. Standing like silent shadows were a desk and a chair beside a doorless threshold on your right, and an armoire and a vanity to your left. When your eyes grazed the mirror, a scream leapt to your throat. Your eyes glowed blue like marsh-fire, a pair of souls lost in the darkness. And your hair…

The floor was cold under your bare feet as you padded closer to your reflection. The light of your eyes made you look haunted, a ghost with bone-white skin and hair pale as bleached bone falling freely around your shoulders. You didn’t recognize yourself. You didn’t recognize the room behind you.

All you remembered was fire, burning through columns and stained glass, blue as gallium–and blood, dripping through your hands, lapped up by some greedy thing woken under the stones. There was the imprint of grief, and loss, and a knife driven into flesh.

Your hand drifted to your stomach and another memory struck like lightning: a bird alighting on a different window, a ribbon stained red on its leg. It was quivering in the cold, but allowed you to take the message it brought. Grief stole your breath. _Dead_. Your family was dead. A wail escaped your throat, your legs giving in. You should be dead too. There had been a numbing darkness, and beyond that–

The smell of cedar and evening mist. A faint whiff of smoke. It washed through you like a balm against the pain, stoppering the flood of anguish.

You leaned your head against the wood, shaking. When a measure of composure returned, you rifled through the drawers, searching for something to make sense. The vanity was empty save for a silver-handled hairbrush. The armoire held several dresses, a few pairs of pants and tops whose style you’d never seen before, but seemed to match your size. On a footstool at the end of the bed was folded robe, sleeves and hems banded with black ribbon and embroidered in gold, like your night gown’s natural pair. You put it on and made for the door, intent on answers.

Beyond was an empty dim deeper than your room. There were lamps, but muted and far in between, illuminating a hallway that stretched to your left. Uneasiness made you hesitate. The last time you’d walked down one, you’d had a blade in your hands, and a friend at your side. The thought of Hugo reopened another wound on your chest. You found yourself darting back to the room and swinging one of the lamps against the wall. Your fingers fumbled on the smashed shards as you picked up a piece that fit into your bloody palm. You did not know if this was the afterlife, but if it did not have your family waiting for you, then you did not trust it.

Your bare feet making no sound as you stepped resolutely into the hallway. There were other doors, closed and secret. You listened for life: footsteps, the creak of bedposts, snores. Nothing. At the end of the hall was a stairwell winding down. You counted in your head as you passed other levels. The deeper you went, the more muted the lamps became, until they were swallowed by the darkness completely.

You stared at the shadows of the next bend and felt the twin pinpricks of someone’s gaze on your back. Your hand flexed beneath your sleeve, finding comfort in the shard hidden there before you stepped into the darkness ahead.

Five steps, and you could see nothing ahead or behind. You pressed yourself against the wall, feeling it scrape against you in a powdery texture, and slowed your breathing. You tried to remember the time your uncle had bound your eyes and told you to dodge blows by instinct.

In a moment, mass disturbed the darkness, and you unfurled like a whip, slamming an arm against a firm chest and bracing your weight forward. The man was taller, larger, but he gave way from surprise, and uttered a small cry as you caught him against the wall, shard pressing against his neck.

The smell of cedar, evening mist, and smoke assaulted your nostrils, hitting you with inexplicable familiarity.

“Who are you?” you demanded.

The body under you was rigid, but the voice was low and even. “I mean you no harm.”

A snarl; then, “Your name, sir, and an account of why I’m here.”

He maneuvered out of your grip, dodging a knee to the groin as he sent the weapon flying out of your grasp and far behind you. The movement was fluid: he could’ve escaped you long before but did not.

“There’s no need for threats,” he said. His tone had not changed, mollifying as a handler before a wild beast. “I will answer your questions, but this is not the place.” Your felt him reach out in the dark, and recoiled. Your feet slipped on the step, and you wavered out of balance before a hand gripped your elbow and steadied you. “Careful.”

You did not trust him, but could see no other way forward. You removed his hand. “You will lead the way, and I shall follow.”

“As you wish.”

You felt him move, painfully aware of him despite the dark. It was less guesswork than actual sensation that helped you keep your distance from him until you stepped back into the light, and you froze in your path.

Wings. Great black wings were on his back, just below wide shoulders.

He turned, sensing your distress, and you saw hazel eyes, and an elegant face. He was the most beautiful man you’d ever seen, even clad in a plain black tunic that seemed to absorb all the light around him, clothing him in shadows.

 _Fae_.

If you’d had any doubts as to which Rhysand he’d meant, they were gone now. You were in the Court of Night, a court of nightmares, for all that the man in front of you did not feel like one.

A line of concern appeared between his brows. “Are you alright?”

You ignored his solicitousness, and motioned for him to continue. More and more questions filled your mind, and if you didn’t focus, you would never know what you needed to most of all.

At the floor immediately below your bedroom (you’d been counting) he aimed for a sliver of light streaming through a pair of open doors. A balcony looked out over a city, asleep under cloud-covered sky.

“This is Velaris, city of dreamers,” he said. 

Your breath caught at the sight of it, your eyes wide as you took in the white-marble and sandstone, the sapphire-blue ribbon of the calm river. Lamplight lit a corner here, a street there. Then, drawing your gaze like a magnet–districts razed by fire, like ugly bruises on a picture of perfection. Your wonder was replaced with horror. Your aunt was responsible for this too.

“Days ago, we found you in the ruins of Caledon Castle,” he said. “You were the only one who survived.”

_Ruins._

You looked at your hands, remembering the comfort of your family’s crest digging into your palm. You had no way of knowing if your gamble would succeed—at the very least, you hoped to die, and be with your family as soon as possible.

_The only one who survived._

Nacola was dead then. Everyone was dead. Why weren’t you?

More magic?

“What do you want from me?” you asked, forcing yourself to meet Azriel’s intent gaze.

“Answers,” he said simply.

A frigid wind passed, but you could not be colder than you already were. The chill was in your blood, your bones. “And if I have none?” you asked.

Azriel raised his head to watch the sky as snow began to fall, softening his edges. Your breath came in a white mist, blown apart before another breeze. Somewhere a woman began to sing, the keening sadness of it filling the night, giving voice to the indescribable abyss inside you.

“Perhaps it would return to you in time,” he said quietly.

Would they keep you until it did? Time did not exist for the fae—they would keep you here forever, separate from all you had.

You could not bear it and turned away, but misjudged how deeply cold had sank into your skin. Standing still for too long had locked your limbs, and your feet were numb from the stones. You stumbled, right into Azriel’s arms, ready to catch you in the blink of an eye.

“I’ll take you back to your room,” he said.

You did not understand his gentleness, the hospitality accorded to you. You’ve heard of the Night Court, terrifying stories of creatures that took children from their bed and stole brides from the feast. For all Azriel’s charm, there was darkness in him too, peering out behind his eyes.

Before long, you were before a door, and it occurred to you to wonder how he knew which one was yours. He pushed back the door, and quickly, your eyes alighted on the broken lamp near your bed. You crossed the threshold, and turned around to face him, the door between you, words on the tip of your tongue.

Finally, he said, “Nuala and Cerridwen will come to you in the morning. It isn’t that you’re forbidden to leave, but there are old warding spells in these halls, and they are unpredictable. You will be safe in this room.”

You waited for him to leave, but he did not. He seemed to hesitate, before saying, “My name is Azriel.”

You were supposed to reply with your name, but it was caught in your throat, heavy with all the honor and horror that came with it.

You only dipped your head in acknowledgment, but gave no answer, only asked, “When will I meet your High Lord?”

“There’s no hurry,” he said, letting your silence go. “You’ll meet him when you’ve recovered.”

“I’m recovered.”

“I’ll tell him so,” he said. “Goodnight.”

In the smallest crack before the latch shut, you echoed, “Goodnight.”

Azriel stood in the hall for a long time, straining to hear you on the other side. He hoped you would go back to sleep, but there was no brush of feet or sound of bedsheets being pulled back. It was just like in the stairwell when he’d lost you in the dark. _In the dark_ , he thought with consternation, even his shadows had been blind until you’d accosted him, pressed against fresh and old wound on his chest, and pinned him against the wall, the smell of you thick on his tongue.

He steadied himself with a shuddering breath, and made his way down the path you’d taken, down the stairs, toward the library where Rhysand and Amren were still poring over records. Amren’s head had snapped up at his arrival, nostrils flaring.

“You smell like blood,” she said suspiciously. She was seated opposite Rhysand, legs wound around stool legs, elbows on the table, hands laced together.

Rhysand raised his own head, studying him with reproach. Azriel overrode his censure. “It’s a shallow wound. It’s nothing.”

“If it was a human who gave it to you, it is not nothing,” Rhysand said forbiddingly.

Azriel kept his calm under his High Lord’s glower. “Nacola ordered the execution of a noble family on the same night she died. It was something I had to investigate myself.”

Papers rustled under Rhysand’s hand. “And what did you find out?”

Azriel told him what he could of the queen’s half-brother’s family, that the third in line to the throne had been one of the casualties. No one was spared. No reason was given. Azriel’s efforts to find something from their estate had been thwarted when he found the place crawling with Hybern’s agents. He’d found nothing of use before it was burnt to the ground.

Rhysand nodded. “That’s a dead end then. We’ll focus on her successor instead. Lorelei, isn’t it?”

“She’s kept away from politics so far, living mostly in her father’s own lands,” Azriel said. “I have an agent at the temporary residence she’s taken in the city. After she’s crowned, he’ll follow her to her chosen castle, and report to me from there.”

“Good.” Rhysand trained a serious look at him. “Go rest. I want you to stay put for the next two days.”

“Rhys–”

Rhysand held up a hand to his protest. “I mean it, Azriel. If you don’t let yourself heal properly, you will only invite more injury.”

“Spend time with your mate, seeing as she’s awake,” Amren drawled. “I can smell her on you too.”

Rhysand’s brow arched as he looked to Azriel for an explanation.

“She went wandering,” Azriel sighed, put out that nothing could get past the petite woman. “I’ve brought her back to her room in the meantime, but she wants to speak with you as soon as possible.”

“Tomorrow then,” Rhysand said. “How does breakfast sound?”

Amren looked put out. “If we’re finished with all this by then,” she said, indicating all the papers.

Rhysand took that as acquiescence. “Breakfast,” he decided. “Did she tell you anything?”

Azriel shook his head. “Not even her name. She–I didn’t want to push her. It’s hard to trust a stranger in the middle of the night.”

“We’ll sort it out,” Rhysand promised.

Azriel excused himself, and went back to his room. It was tucked on a corner, and everyone who was on the floor passed it. It was how he’d found out about you, your scent seeping beneath his door as you passed. He pulled off his shirt, readjusting the bandages he’d hastily finished to follow you, then sat at his desk. It must’ve been some time later, when he closed his eyes for a bit, that sleep sunk its claws on him and didn’t let go.

The room transformed into something else all too familiar as he slumped against bone-white walls, trying to catch his breath. His hand clutched at the ash-bolt on his chest, dripping blood as it tried to find its way to his chest. Behind and ahead, the tunnel seemed to go on forever. He could remember how long he’d been walking, but he had the nagging feeling he’d walked this path before.

He gritted his teeth and forced himself to continue. The air was still, his breathing loud even to his own ears. Still, he kept on, for miles it seemed, until he fell to his knees.

Something in the wind shifted, and he opened his eyes to a large room that hadn’t been there before. A cauldron was on a dais, bubbling over, and all around it, he saw his friends, unmoving as their blood turned the clear water red.

“Look upon your failure, spymaster.”

The whisper was a breath on his ear. He stiffened, and the King of Hybern laughed as he stood and brushed past him. When he was by Cassian’s broken body, wings in shreds, he looked over his shoulder with a grin sharp as an ivory knife.

“I almost forgot.”

He snapped his fingers, and guards appeared from another tunnel, bearing a slumped form between them. He knew immediately who it was, and felt the scream clawing up his throat.

“AZRIEL!”

He jerked awake, and hissed as a shock of pain erupted over his chest. He’d fallen asleep on his desk, head pillowed by unfinished reports, and grown stiff in the uncomfortable position. Outside, a commotion was ensuing, courtesy of his childhood friend.

“AZRIEL, _ARE YOU HERE_?” Cassian’s enormous boom was more suited to a battlefield than a residence.

Azriel stood and stretched his limbs back into movement. A cursory glance revealed that the bandages were intact and had not yet bled through, though he would have to change them again soon. He made for the door, and found the source of the noise as easily as seeking the eye of a hurricane.

“I am here,” he said to his friend’s back. “What do you want?”

Cassian whirled around, and to Azriel’s consternation, lit up with a grin. Immediately, he was pounced upon, shaken from both shoulders. “Rhysand said your mate’s awake!” At Azriel’s lack of sufficient appreciation, he stressed, “We’re meeting her at lunch?”

Memory of the last few hours came back. His excursion to Caledon to investigate the sudden and indiscriminate execution of an entire noble family, the unexpected encounter with Hybern spies at the same site…you, finally awake upon his return.

Azriel hummed in acknowledgment, resolved to continue his contemplation of that particular meeting in a more private time.

“Are you okay?” Cassian asked. “You weren’t at dinner and you look like shit.”

“I had reports to finish.” 

“I see I’ve been beaten,” Mor’s irritated voice came from behind Cassian. “How’d you ferret him out of his room?”

“He raised a din loud enough to put the Court of Nightmares to shame,” Azriel deadpanned.

Mor snorted, though the gesture couldn’t quite be unladylike when it was her who did it. “That’s why we put _his_ room in the furthest end of the west wing.”

“Go away, I was here first,” Cassian groused.

“Don’t be a child,” Mor said, before turning to Azriel. “I hope you’re not thinking of going to lunch like that.”

She herself was in a deep green dress half-way between casual and formal, a much more circumspect choice than the one she’d worn to dinner during Feyre’s introduction. Cassian, on the other hand, was in a large coat and a dark sweater, comfortable but respectable, though his hair was hopeless.

He still looked better than Azriel must seem.

“Go soak in a tub, Az,” Mor said, clicking her tongue as if the same thought occurred to her. “You look like you drank too much at the pub and got into several brawls on the way home.”

“I agree,” Cassian said, squinting at him from head to toe. “You’re looking uncharacteristically peaky.”

Azriel put a hand to his face and waved at them to go away with the other. He hadn’t felt this bad last night, but then poison always took a few hours to completely manifest. His terrible pallor is just an aftermath of his body dealing with the toxins.

“Come on, Cassian,” Mor said, putting a hand on the other’s elbow to steer him away. She glanced over her shoulder and winked. “We’ll keep your mate company if she’s early.”

You clipped the whitewashed strands of your hair back with a silver pin shaped like a dagger and regarding yourself in the mirror. In an ivory undershirt and a navy-blue overdress, your skin looked paler than usual, but you figured everything about your transformed appearance would seem pale no matter what you wore. Gone was your mother’s tanned complexion, your father’s dark gaze. You looked like winter.

You stood from the vanity. Nuala opened the door, and Cerridwen was at your side as you swept out the room. They glided ahead of you as one, dark-haired and dark-eyed and copies of each other in almost every regard. But Nuala felt like a lighter shade of gray to Cerridwen’s darker shade, though how that made sense in your head, you weren’t sure.

In the daylight, you could better see the hall you passed last night, red-tinged, and hewn straight from rock. You marveled at the honeycomb structure you’d missed, as if the interior had been fashioned from a natural cave network. The handmaids led you down familiar stairs, two flights down, and finally to a pair of doors carved with a roiling mass of carousing creatures you didn’t recognize, their teeth filed into sharp points and their fingers like talons. It opened without being touched, and as you stepped forward, Nuala and Cerridwen vanished from your side.

Inside was a large table laboring under a great many dishes, though no one was yet seated.

You found Azriel with unerring accuracy, though he was but a figure cloaked in shadow near a corner, resisting sunlight. He was talking to a woman with golden hair falling down her back, like warmth on a cold day. She looked up at you as if sensing your gaze, hand going to Azriel’s arm.

You turned away sharply and regarded the others, unaware that the light from the lamps turned blue for an instant. Just a moment, barely a flash. Blink and you’ll miss it.

The woman in the pewter-toned ensemble didn’t. You felt her attention like a storm trapped in a glass ball, barely contained. That one, your mind pointed out, was to be avoided as much as possible.

At the balcony, furthest from you, were two other males. Like Azriel, great, black wings were at their backs. One was large with shoulder-length hair, and not even the white tint of a winter’s morning could quite smoothen the edges of him, like rock carved by wind and fire.

Beside him was the center of the room’s gravity, the point in which all the pieces always seemed to adjust. He wore a meticulously tailored tunic and pants, unarmored like the two other males. He had nothing to fear.

He stepped forward first, and spread out his hands. “Welcome,” he greeted, voice smooth and light.

You bowed as low as courtesy for royalty demanded. “High Lord Rhysand,” you greeted back. “Thank you for seeing me so soon.”

They moved toward the seats. You remained where you were.

Rhysand cocked his head from the left seat beside the head of the table, and gestured in front of him. “Please,” he said. “Sit.”

You hid your surprise behind a composed face, aware that everyone was waiting for you to comply. You hadn’t really realized you were part of the meal, had thought you’d say your piece and be dismissed, and yet you could see that there were indeed six table placements.

Rhysand was aware of your reluctance, but misinterpreted. “If the food is not to your taste, we will have another prepared. We hope you would join us in any case.”

Slowly, you moved, passing the large, shoulder-haired male, then Azriel, whom you ignored after seeing the other woman easily touch him, then the empty seat in front of Rhysand. He smiled, and when he sat, everyone followed, including you.

The plates were filled with the same dishes: a caramelized almond bun, fresh off the oven, a salad filled with greens that shouldn’t look so healthy this late in winter, sprinkled with tomatoes and cheese, and sausages, greasy with fat. A steaming creamed soup was close to a goblet of a golden drink.

Human food. Food that you _knew_.

“Contrary to popular belief, only a few of us sustained by raw flesh and mortal fear,” Rhysand commented, still watchful, still picking out the thoughts in your head. “We know better than to correct the impression, though. If the world thinks we are monsters, we are spared from having to _be_ monsters.”

“Most of the time,” the silver-eyed, short-haired woman two seats from him commented.

All around you the others had begun to eat, unbothered. You took a sip of the drink, before taking up your fork to eat a piece of lettuce. You supposed if they wouldn’t want you dead until you had given them what they wanted. The dressing burst on your tongue like oranges and spring. It was wonderful. You did not trust it.

“This is Morrigan, my cousin,” he introduced the woman with the golden hair beside him. “Amren,” he pointed to the woman at the end, silver-eyed. “Cassian,” he named the rough-hewn man. “And, of course, Azriel,” he said, smiling at the man beside you. “Together, they comprise my Inner Court.”

You nodded at them. “Well met,” you said courteously.

“I knew that dress would suit you,” Morrigan said, leaning forward. “The color goes well with your skin.”

“And with–” Cassian began. You looked at him when he cut off abruptly with a cry, but Azriel had bent to sip a spoonful of soup, blocking your view of the male beyond him.

“And your name?” Rhysand asked.

You looked down resolutely. “I am no one, my lord."

He was quiet for a long time, before he spoke again. “Eat first,” he said. “We’ll talk after the meal, over dessert.” 

He motioned for you to begin. The charade chafed at you. Why didn’t they just ask you what they needed and be done with it?

The first bite burst on your tongue like spring, bright and warm, that you almost choked on it. You swallowed with difficulty, hiding everything. You could feel their intent gazes on you, though their manners were easy, and they spoke of mundane things, avoiding the subject you wanted to speak of. Finally, with a smile and a snap of her fingers, Mor declared it was time for dessert. Empty dishes were replaced by smaller plates of lemon and citrus tart, a luxury in winter.

Coffee wafted from newly appeared cups when the High Lord finally spoke. “It was rare magic that destroyed Caledon Castle. I did not expect to find it in the mortal world.”

The unspoken question was easy enough to answer. “Long ago, when we were allies, the High Lords of Prythian gave us a gift. You made the walls of the castle unbreachable by any mortal design and impenetrable to all fae magic by tying the spell to royal blood.”

“Blood,” Amren commented suddenly. “Of course. It’s the only thing strong enough to bind a spell that powerful for very long. And if royal blood made it, royal blood could unmake it. The blood spell unleashed that inferno.”

Coffee turned bitter in your mouth at her next words: “Why did you do it?” Your hands were cold as ice in your lap as many pairs of eyes fell on you. Amren’s gaze was ancient, stripping you of all pretense. It saw underneath your skin.

“What?” Cassian broke in, incredulous.

“Royal blood unmade the spell,” Azriel said quietly beside you, following Amren’s thinking before the rest. “But Nacola would’ve been well-guarded that night. It was the same night she had her brother’s family executed.”

You shut your eyes. It was worse than being back on the window, a shivering bird bearing a message bravely through the snow. There was shock then; now, everything felt raw.

“It was your family she murdered,” Amren said bluntly. “Wasn’t it?”

 _Murder_ , she called it, because that’s what it was. You could feel their pity and hated it.

“Who are you?” the High Lord of Night asked again.

There was no more use for pretense, but still the words fell from your mouth like black stones. “Miroslava of Dunia.”

“You are not in the succession line,” Amren said quickly, eyes narrowing.

“Queens-in-waiting cannot stay in the palace.”

“So you gave up your right to be there,” Mor understood. “Why?”

When you did not answer, Rhysand asked, “What was your family’s crime?”

“It is not a crime to oppose a queen who was betrayed her people,” you answered adamantly. “In the countryside, they have begun to take peasants to be sent as a tithe to Hybern. Nacola would’ve bought the years of her life with every slave she sends them.”

“Then you have done an honorable thing.”

You shook your head, mouth bitter with the realization that came in the long hours between waking and dawn. “My family is blameless, but I am not. Innocent people died for my grief that night.”

“For your grief,” Rhysand echoed. “The inferno was not planned.”

“My father balked at harming his sister, though she had no qualms in regard to him,” you said bitterly. “I was angry. I wanted to follow my family to death, but I would take her with me.”

“And yet here you are,” Amren said. “The spell protected you.”

You looked at the High Lord and poured entreaty to your voice. “Your magic was in the spell. Undo it. I have given you answers. You have no further use for me.”

“That might kill you,” Cassian intervened.

That is what you wanted.

The High Lord read it on your voice, and you waited with bated breath for his verdict.

“I cannot undo it,” he said finally. “Not without learning more about the nature of the spell. Blood magic is unstable—it changes over time. I will not risk another inferno in this city if it fights to protect you.”

His words fell like blows. You felt sick, despair climbing up your throat until you feared it would spill from your mouth.

But Rhysand’s eyes were tempered with kindness you did not expect. “Stay with us for now. You cannot go back, not if there is magic in you. If you are not killed on sight, Hybern agents will take you, and that is a fate I would not wish on anyone.”

Your fingers clutched your skirt, imagining both scenarios. It was a mercy that Rhysand offered, but you did not trust it. Not after months in Nacola’s court, and not from what you knew of the treachery of the Night Court.

Was it more horrible than the certainty of capture by Hybern?

“Why do you offer me this?” you asked, playing for time. “I have done you no favor. Our court will blame you for Nacola’s death—they knew of her part in the razing of Velaris. There is no hope for an alliance now.”

Rhysand laced his fingers together, face unreadable. “You have pushed them further toward Hybern, yes.” He caught your flinch with unerring attention. “Don’t you want to fix that?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me much longer than I wanted. For some reason, professors think one has nothing better to do except study during lockdown. 
> 
> But here it is! Let me know your comments and feedback, I always love to hear them.


	3. Chapter 3

Rhysand’s words hung over you long after he resumed eating, prompting the others to follow. You tried to accede but stopped after a bite. The crust cake base caught like ash on your throat, the lemon tasted like rust.

A chair scraped against the floor, and you stood on unsteady legs half a beat after Rhysand rose. His eyebrows rose. “There’s no need to be so formal,” he said. “Please enjoy the rest of the meal.”

Amren offered no explanation as she stood up as well. They swept from the room, leaving you uncertain as to your next step. Your plate was nearly finished, your drink almost empty. The rest of the table, still seated, was finishing up. Perhaps you could take your leave as well.

Mor put her chin on her hand and smiled up. “ _You’re_ not tired, are you?”

You could imagine a great many courtiers have swooned at her full attention. She wasn’t just beautiful–she was devastating. When she looked at you, it was like being bathed in the warmth of the sun. You were painfully aware of Azriel beside you, taking in the dredges of that brilliance, and it made your veins feel as if they were alight under your skin.

“I’m alright,” you said, and tried to sound like it.

“Are you up for a little sightseeing then? I’m going to the city in a while. You should come with me.”

Your brows furrowed. You’d assumed the boundaries of your new situation would go no further than the path from your bedroom, to the dining room, to the meeting rooms when there was need of you.

“It’s a bit early for the artists’ presentation, isn’t it?” Cassian asked, masking your delayed response.

“I need to check on the repairs in the Palace of Thread and Jewels first.” She cocked her head. “Were you able to invite Feyre’s sisters yet?”

Cassian sighed. “Not yet.”

“Just ask.”

“I could get my head bitten off.”

“Ask Elain,” Azriel advised.

“You should go with him,” Mor said. “Elain is calmer around you. We’ll all meet up tonight, in front of the restaurant.”

Azriel shook his head. “I’m not–”

The transformation in Mor’s face was sudden and complete, the angles of her bones sharpening, a harshness creeping into her mouth. “If you don’t come with Cassian and Elain is unable to dampen Nesta’s temper, there will be no one to bring his mangled body home.”

Azriel held out for a brave moment; his eventual sigh was deep and resigned.

“Besides, both of you need to come. Otherwise, we’ll have to take the long way down.” She turned back to you with a kinder face. “You are coming, yes?”

You had been watching the dynamic play out for a while, absorbed at the ebb and flow of interaction. As Rhysand’s cousin, Mor must hold a lot of political power, but though she made thinly-veiled threats, it came off as mere banter between friends.

Mor was waiting. You nodded finally.

She beamed. “You should get a coat, it will be cold today. Shall Azriel escort you to your room?”

Already extricating yourself from the table, you declined. “No need, I think I know the way.”

You left swiftly, the cadence of their voices drifting behind you as you stalked down the hall and up to your room. It was likely they would talk about you in your absence, but there was nothing you could do about that.

Nuala and Cerridwen materialized at your side just as you were wondering if you were making for the right door. You hovered, a little surprised. “You two weren’t waiting, were you?”

“We’re to assist you in all regards,” was Nuala’s cryptic response.

You returned to the dining hall in the latter to find the others ready to leave. Cassian and Azriel were imposing in dark worn leather. With practiced habit, you picked out the hilt of a knife tucked at Cassian’s waist, and another strapped to Azriel’s thigh. Mor was in a camel-toned trench coat, standing out against all your dark colors. She linked arms with you, and to your confusion, led you out to the balcony. Outside, the sky was an expanse of cloud and snow, and the wind nipped at each inch of exposed skin. You surveyed your surroundings, unable to find a means of exit.

Mor smiled your confused gaze. “There are only two ways out of the House of Wind. One involves a ten-thousand-step staircase.”

You inhaled sharply in dismay, and the chill scraped up your nose and made a point between your brows ache.

“Fortunately, there is a second, faster way,” she continued, bringing the two of you close to the railing. Your heart trembled in your chest as the long drop stretched out before you, afraid she meant to throw you over in the culmination of a long-drawn out Night Court joke. “Hence, our two dashing Illyrians back there.”

You looked back at Cassian and Azriel, at the great black wings half-unfurled at their backs. Realizing what Mor meant, your opened your mouth in protest, but couldn’t find the right words.

Mor patted your arm as Cassian supplied, “It’ll be…five seconds, max?”

You stared at him for five seconds, counting in your head. It seemed entirely too long.

Azriel frowned. “If you are uncomfortable, you don’t have to–”

His voice cleared the haze in your head. What were you going to do if you couldn’t survive this? You were no coward. If they meant to kill you, you might as well let them get on with it. If not, then you would be able to see the city its High Lords had treasured so much they’d hidden it from the rest of the world.

Forward, your mother always said.

You were certain Mor was to be taken by Azriel, so that left Cassian to assist you. You stepped out of Mor’s grip and placed a hand on Cassian’s arm. “Tell me how to make it easy for you then.”

Cassian’s face, you found, was an open book. His eyes widened like orbs, panic flashing across his face as he glanced at Azriel, then Mor. You didn’t know what to make of it. Had they expected you to refuse after all?

“Be careful with her,” Azriel said evenly as he stepped forward and offered his hand to Mor. You couldn’t look away as she took it, and looped her other arm around his shoulders.

Perhaps you should turn back. It was too cold. Your lungs must be freezing, you couldn’t breathe so.

“Um,” Cassian said, and the cautious hesitation as he tried to rearrange your limbs was at such odds with his imposing frame than you found yourself also correcting your impression of him. “Is it okay if I just carry you?”

You swallowed and nodded, trying not to stiffen as he bent and hooked an arm under your knees, another braced behind you. You grit your teeth as he lifted you, already imagining how much worse the oncoming drop would be. _Mother, preserve me_ , you prayed as he stepped over the balcony. You barely managed to grip his coat before the world disappeared beneath you. Your heart leapt to your throat, smothering your scream.

After an eternity, there was a thud, like jerking up from a nightmare. You forced your eyes open, but your vision swam, unable to make sense of the spinning sky. Your mouth tasted of metal.

“You okay?” Cassian asked, looking down with concern.

You nodded against your true feelings, and couldn’t help but dig your nails against his arm as he let you carefully down. Your knees had become liquid.

Mor disentangled you from Cassian, transferring your weight to her as she steered you away from the two. You were at a small square, under the shadow of the statue of a woman carved in marble. There were cobblestones at your feet, and people milling around shops, casting an interested glance at your group every now and then.

To say it was just like every other town you’d seen would not be quite true. There was a florist from whose direction came a riot of scents, but the flowers you could see where uncanny things with drooping paper-thin petals or carnivorous heads with too many teeth. There was an apothecary, or so you thought from the array of jars and bottles on its window. You were staring at a floating white orb in one of the decanters when it blinked like an eye and you felt faint again.

Mor mistook your faltering balance as a lingering side effect of the drop. “Sorry about that,” she said apologetically. “Cassian’s wings are still healing, not to mention he gets nervous around anything small and fragile.”

You didn’t like to think of yourself as small and fragile, but at the moment, you would concede to the description. You were feeling a little sick and overwhelmed.

Mor left your companions behind and steered you toward a street, keeping up a stream of friendly commentary that allowed you to regain enough composure to appreciate your surroundings. Interspersed with the shops were townhouses with green copper roofs and white chimneys. Signs of repair abounded, from indications of newly painted walls and doors that looked much newer than the windows (and vice versa). But some things could not be completely erased, like soot-stains, and houses boarded up and silent.

Mor had stopped talking, seeing your distraction. You admitted, “I’m terribly sorry for this.”

“Don’t beat yourself up over it. You’re not Nacola.”

In front of you were scaffolds and supports braced against damaged columns, and no small number of people armed with saws, hammers and nails. You listened intently as Mor drifted through the workers, asking after progress and necessary supplies. Meanwhile, trade continued in the stalls that hadn’t been caved in. Cloth of every texture and pattern were laid out in counters, carpets hung in intricate patterns like dividers, and jewelry glittered in boxes and chests laid out for patrons.

While Mor got into a protracted discussion with one of the heads, you drifted toward a commotion in another aisle, close to the edge of the market. A group of children were throwing snow at a hunched figure, and without thinking, you rushed forward.

“Stop!” you called out, catching a snowball on the arm as you shielded the poor creature.

A child with horns sticking out of tight curly hair hurtled one last missile as his companions turned tail, before running to catch up with them.

You knelt to help the subject of their mischief. It was an old leathery male, small and hunched with spindly fingers in each hand, a long nose, and a red cap that looked bright and new against his grey rags.

“Are you alright?” you asked. You were hesitant now, remembering you were not among your own people.

He blinked up at you. “I’m alright now, my dear,” he rasped. “Thank you.”

You offered a hand to help him up. He came only to your waist. “I’ll take my leave then, if you’re sure you’re okay,” you said.

He stumbled forward, and you reached out to catch him, but he never fell into your arms. Instead, he came awfully close, inhaling deeply. “Curious,” he murmured. He raised his eyes to you briefly and uttered arcanely, “It will be easy to remember you,” before going off his own way, disappearing between stalls.

Mor latched on you when you returned. “I thought I’d lost you,” she huffed. Her arm was tight around you as she forged onward, taking you to further into the labyrinth of excellent craftsmanship until you were certain you’d never find your way back out alone.

A shopkeeper called out Mor’s name, and she stopped abruptly, recalibrated, and marched the two of you in that direction.

“You changed your stall?” she asked.

“We did a little rearrangement, the other tradesmen and I, to accommodate those whose spaces are currently under repair.”

“Ah,” Mor said. “Hopefully, everything will be finished by next week. What’s new then?”

“ _Lace_ ,” he said, theatrically pulling out an entire bolt of storm-grey cloth in painstaking detail. Mor took an edge between her fingers, then held it up against you thoughtfully.

“It suits you,” she commented, startling you when she draped the material against your shoulder. “We need something ready for tonight though.”

Understanding dawned on Hiram’s face. He disappeared under the stacks, during which Mor placed the bolt of lace back on the table. He returned with a box, proffering it to her with a little bow. Mor unhooked the ribbons and pulled off the top, revealing a deep red dress that made her hair look alight. Satisfied at Mor’s reaction, Hiram turned to you and winked before excusing himself once. This time, he ducked inside the small tent behind him, and reappeared with another box. He bowed again and offered it to you.

You don’t move, unable to fathom what your hosts are playing at. The old nursemaids’ always used to warn: never accept a gift from the fae.

“I thank you, Mor,” you said, “but I can’t accept this.”

You were firm, but you could see from Mor’s eyes that she was also stubborn. It warned you that this argument would not swing in your favor.

“Cassian,” Azriel prompted after another minute of silence. He was going to hit the male upside the head if he didn’t move soon. They’d been standing in front of the door for some time.

Finally, Cassian knocked. Three sharp raps, then another round of waiting. Cassian stood rigid as a statue, as a man facing off death.

With the exception of Cassian, who went every day, the Inner Court had been alternating their visits to the sisters, explaining their options, trying to help them through the sudden onslaught of stimuli propagated by their new fae senses. Bringing them to the gathering would take them one step further into Feyre’s world – an inevitability that neither sister were particularly enthusiastic about.

The door swung open, and Nesta regarded them coldly from the threshold. Her hair was braided in a loop around her head, stray strands framing a face that fire couldn’t thaw. “What do you want?”

“Nesta,” Cassian’s voice took on the charming, slippery tone he used to make light of dangerous situations. “There is a–”

“Not interested.” Nesta was already closing the door when Azriel caught the flash of pastel behind her.

“Elain,” he called. “How are you?”

Nesta narrowed her eyes at him as her sister squeezed forward. The second-born Archeron looked pale and wan, but she offered a smile nonetheless. Since she had recovered from the first bout of visions, she had been trying harder to come to terms with their situation. “Hello, Azriel, Cassian.”

“Are you well enough to go out?” he asked. “There is an event being hosted by the artists’ guild tonight. It won’t be anything too grand, just something to lift people’s spirits. You only have to watch.”

Elain touched her sister’s arm in quiet inquiry. Since the visions abated, Elain had stepped forward to trying to adjust to their new situation more.

Nesta’s brows furrowed as she considered Elain’s unspoken interest. “Fine,” she said grudgingly. “What time is this? We’ll have to prepare.”

“At moonrise.”

Nesta probably meant to send them away, but Elain pulled the door wider. “Are you going somewhere else or do you want to come in?” she asked.

Nesta glared at Cassian when he accepted, then disappeared down the hall when Elain waved them in. “Come have tea while you wait,” Elain said, stepping back to let them in, then locking the door after them.

Nesta’s dress trailed up the stairs as they turned to the kitchen.

Elain set a kettle to boil with practiced ease, and took a pinch of dried leaves from one of the numerous mason jars on the counter to put in mugs. The room smelled of a forest in spring, and it brought her to life.

“Where’d you get these?” Cassian asked, fiddling with one of the jars stacked on the bar he leaned against.

“They were delivered in crates to the house across yesterday. I smelled the herbs and got curious, and the merchant saw me from the window. He gave us samples.”

Cassian looked pleased. It was probably the first interaction they had with the townspeople, and it would be good if Elain took up her old interests. 

Elain bit her lip. “I think the whole block heard Nesta chewing out his son for making advances, though. On her, not me.”

Cassian’s eyes narrowed, his fingers turning white against a jar. “Do you remember what he looked like?”

Elain opened her mouth to answer, before catching Azriel’s subtle shake of head behind Cassian. “It’s alright. Nesta took care of it.” She leaned forward on the counter and lowered her voice. “I know you liked her even before the Cauldron–” the word caught on her tongue, but she forged forward bravely– “but Nesta doesn’t trust it, this new bond she has with you. She feels she’s being forced against her will.”

Azriel propped back against one of the counters, watching his friend try to find the right words to answer. He knew this moment was coming, but it was something you could prepare for. It was easier to explain the physical attributes of being fae than explain the strange phenomena attached to it.

When Elain first started dreaming of you, screaming at the fire that licked up her arms and the blood– _so much blood_ , she’d whimper, trembling when she woke–Nesta had lambasted Cassian, threatening to kill him in the same breath she begged him to make it stop. And when they could do nothing, she turned them all out, barring them from entry. Azriel’s only news came from his watchers, and they could only tell him when the screaming came and went.

It stopped on the night they found you, and it hadn’t returned since. Nesta allowed them in again, probably on Elain’s urging. She’d wanted to understand what happened to her, what she could do if it happened again. Nesta said it wouldn’t happen again. She couldn’t accept that it wasn’t something she could control.

Just like the bond with Cassian.

“The mating bond is a connection,” Cassian explained in a slow, careful way, while Elain took the shrieking kettle and poured for their cups. In the shadow of the hallway, Azriel felt Nesta go back down the stairs and pause at their voices, listening unseen. “Emotions and thoughts flow between both ends, but it doesn’t make up anything that isn’t there.”

“But wouldn’t it better if she naturally allowed herself to like you? Couldn’t you break the bond for now?” Elain asked. “Feyre had done it.”

Azriel could see how the suggestion hurt Cassian, but the Illyrian hid it well. “That was a trick. Feyre made a gamble to get us all out, and Tamlin wanted her enough to fool himself. If the bond had really been broken, Rhysand would’ve been driven mad by it.”

“Then it cannot be broken, ever?”

“Only by death.”

Elain looked troubled, perhaps thinking of her own mate, sworn to the court holding her sister hostage.

Cassian tried to make light of it. “Tell her not to dwell on it too much. The bond has to be accepted by the female to truly work.”

“How?”

Cassian picked out a tiny piece of berry from the fruit bowl and put in front of Elain. “She offers him food.”

Nesta swept into the room, straight-backed and ready for battle. “Elain, are you going to change or not?”

It was only a passing comment, more a thought said aloud, but there it was. “If you could already feel and hear each other before the bond is accepted, what else happens after?” Elain asked.

“What usually happens after marriage.”

Azriel watched with interest as a flush spread out from Nesta’s face to her chest, and her knuckles turn white from gripping her dress. Behind her, Elain put a hand over her mouth, shocked and equally pink.

Nesta stalked back out of the room. Cassian said a quiet apology to Elain, who looked delicately faint.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “For telling us.” She glanced at the doorway. “I should go after her. She might change her mind about going. You two help yourselves to anything in the cupboards.”

When she was gone, Cassian sighed into the counter. Azriel leaned forward and shook his shoulder in sympathy.

Cassian grunted. 

Azriel left him to wallow in peace, exploring the rest of the house in routine inspection to find out how they were doing. Aside from a sense of slight dishevelment and the array of displaced foliage in the kitchen, the rest of the rooms were quite neat. A book was near an armchair, a military journal left by one of the house’s old residents. He couldn’t imagine Elain being interested, so that left only Nesta.

They both came down a little after an hour had passed, smelling of bathing perfumes and looking much better. The affinity of the former to the summer court was evident: her hair flowed freely down her back, and her light-colored dress had the faint imprint of flowers and veins intertwined. She looked like a meadow in snow. Nesta, on the other hand, was all clean lines and sharp silhouettes in deep purple, like a drawn knife that would cut everyone who came too close. It wasn’t quite Night Court, more…Illyrian, if anything.

She stared down Cassian’s darkening eyes with steely ones of her own before marching down the hallway, Elain trailing after her.

Outside, the light was already failing, as it was apt to do in a hurry in this season. The pair were waiting at the sidewalk, attracting attention that Nesta was all too aware of. Protective in a way that Rhysand once resented her for not extending to Feyre, she curved her body around her sister, leaving herself exposed. Cassian stalked past Azriel, puffing up into a large threatening mass that made half the males in the street walk faster and made a more than a few females to flutter their hands against their breast.

Curiously, Nesta did not push Cassian away as he fell into step beside her, like a wall between her and everyone else. Behind them, Elain asked Azriel about the city.

By the time they reached the plaza where the Restaurant was located, the sky was a layered canvas of mingling dusk and evening tones. Mor waved at them from a café nearby, resplendent in a new scarlet gown with tight long sleeves. Azriel was alarmed that she was alone, recognizing only belatedly the figure sitting across her with her back turned.

But then the bone-hued hair registered and he faltered as you looked over your shoulder. Mor had brought you a dress too, darkest blue as a night without a moon but many stars. A pattern of tiny beads glittered across the cloth when you moved. Unfamiliar possessiveness had him reaching for Truth-Teller, intent on blinding anyone whose gaze lingered on you too long.

He caught himself, barely.

Mor made the necessary introductions. Nesta looked at you calculatingly; Elain was shocked to meet the girl who’d haunted her first visions. After a few false starts as Elain’s shy nature and your cautious nature clashed, you found common ground, and your heads bent together, throwing questions back and forth. When you took seats inside, you were at Elain’s left, Nesta on her right.

He was about to sit when he felt Mor’s knee propel him forward. She sat facing Elain, forcing Cassian to sit in front of Nesta, and him in front of you.

“Are the others coming?” Cassian asked Mor when the first dish, duck comfit dressed in vinaigrette, arrived.

Mor shrugged. “Rhysand probably. It’ll soothe his people, and honor the performers. Not sure about Amren, however.” Suddenly, she gripped Azriel’s arm. “I heard from one of the traders who just arrived that they passed strange ships near the wall. It could be Hybern.”

“I’ll ask after it,” he promised.

He caught you staring at him long and hard after, before Elain leaned close to say something, and your attention drifted. He was content to stay quiet after that, letting the conversation in the table and those around drift about him. The mood was promising; everyone was excited by the upcoming performance.

The courses marched before them in delicious succession. The proprietress had outdone herself again, and took one look at you and the Archerons before declaring she’d replace all your favorite dishes with one of hers by the end of the month.

You were least guarded when you were eating, he observed. You liked their food, whatever you might say out loud if asked. He would have to ask Mor about the best restaurants, and–

 _Invite you_?

He brushed the thought away.

Soon, people were leaving their tables in an exodus to the streets. Mor hurried everyone up so you can take a good spot, and he knew better than point out that it was unnecessary. Most of the people recognized one or the other of the group, and immediately gave way.

Mor led you all to an imposing villa rising three stories high. Its hallways were on either side of the rooms, open to the elements; its doors were open arches. In the middle was a large courtyard with a fountain at its center. People waited under shadowed eaves, their grief-stained faces sharp in the golden lamplight, remembering that the house once belonged to the head of the artists’ guild, and he was another soul lost during Hybern’s attack.

As you all took your place in a spot Mor chose, the lamps went out, and the murmurs died away as everyone held their breath. Azriel felt movement in the shadows. When a sliver of moonlight peered through the clouds, everyone saw the dancers in place, facing outward from the fountain, where two figures stood on the stone lip on opposite sides.

The female began to sing, soft and sorrowful. The male answered, deep and weary. It’s an old song about life and death, and love and loss, and the shared experience turned those two strangers into acquaintances, into friends, into confidantes. The music weaved itself to their voices, and the dancers began to move, music made form.

A child’s voice entered the narrative, and the tone became gradually lighter, hopeful. A dancer moved out of formation, and stood in front of a female. The exchange was silent, the offer and answer unspoken. She took his hand and leaned in as he took her in his arms, with the easy synchronicity of lovers.

Other dancers were taking partners from the audience. A daughter drew her father from an isolated alcove; a brother took a weeping sister’s hand. Friends reached out to one another; those who had no one left sought others as alone. The courtyard swirled with somber but lifting energy.

Azriel was distracted by Rhysand’s arrival when Cassian gripped his arm and jerked his head.

One of the dancers, a young male with tawny hair and a charming smile bowed low before you, hand offered in invitation. Azriel’s pulse thundered in his ears, though he shook his head at Cassian not to intervene. It was your choice, just as having Cassian bring you down the House of Wind earlier had been your choice. He would not posture himself as if he were entitled to you.

But he was filled with relief when you shook your head, smile kind but firm. The dancer looked disappointed, and made a dramatic gesture of putting his hands on his heart in pain as he drifted to the others, eventually offering a teary supplication to a little girl who was happy enough to take the offer.

The incident didn’t deter the others, however, and as the music continued and the plaza filled up, more and more invitations came, until Nesta had her arm around Elain and was glaring at everyone to take their rising enthusiasm elsewhere, while Cassian stood an imposing figure behind her, daring them to make a wrong move.

But you…he’d lost track of you, and had to slip away from yet another dancer intent on convincing him to dance to see better in the mass of people. His shadows swept around him in advance, trying not to disturb the others, until eventually he found you far toward the edge of the crowd, slipping up the stairs.

He followed at a distance, the faint glitter of your dress weaving through people as you went all the way up to the third floor, then up a narrow winding stair to a tower. Because he’d been there before, he knew there was a landing before the terrace, and he paused there, watching you make a turn around the room, the city glimmering around you. After a while, you settled on the balcony, pulling up your knees and looking straight at him.

The instance of your eyes meeting sent a spark down his spine, so used as he’d been to remaining unseen. But she saw you in the shadows without flinching, and called out in an unfathomable tone, “You don’t have to watch me so much. I’m not going anywhere.”

He stepped into a ribbon of moonlight and answered carefully. “Perhaps, but others might come to you.”

“Why?”

“You’re not obviously mortal, but there is something different about you, something that might fascinate others even though they don’t know why.”

“Do you really steal away young men and women then?”

He tried to be honest. “Some of the fae do. It is not that they’re evil, it’s just their nature.”

“Maybe their nature is evil.”

“Humans do evil things as well.”

You sighed heavily, and you looked away, leaning back against a pillar. “So they do.”

He hovered, unsure if he should leave you alone. He wanted to stay, but not if you did not like it.

It was you who spoke first. “You should go back down, Azriel. I’m sure there are people who wish to dance with you.”

But none he wanted to dance with. “The same could be said of you.”

“I don’t have the right to be there. It’s for the dead and the living of Velaris, not those who are partially at fault for its tragedy.”

A breeze blew past, ruffling your hair, taking the scent of cinnamon and hearthfire to him. “You’ve lost your family too. Your grief isn’t less than theirs.”

The corner of your lips lifted, but you said nothing more, your face half-turned away, eyes distant.

“Shall I leave you then?” he asked quietly.

Still you were silent, and he turned reluctantly back when he heard you speak softly, tentatively, “Stay if you wish.” When he looked at you, you added, “Though I won’t be much of company.”

He strode forward before you changed your mind, and he caught the slightest intake of breath as he swallowed the distance in a few long strides, settling himself on the pillar opposite, facing you.

You studied the river below intently. A small boat was moored on a pier attached to the house’s backyard, and the water glittered in reflection of the stars. Music from the courtyard hung around you, and he was aware of you listening, every sense heightened.

He told himself this was close enough, him hovering at the edges of your awareness. Fae rarely mated with humans; even the balance of the world recognized such a thing was doomed from the beginning. You would live half a century more at most; he had already lived half a millennia. Your relationship would always be tainted by an inevitable future. How long could he bear it, to know his time with you was as short as the instant between falling asleep and waking up in the morning? How could he let you bear it, the burden of knowing your death will bring him his?

Better to be silent, to let it stay a half-dream. Cassian had said it well to Elain: until a bond is accepted, it was just a hum, a quickening of the heart, a shiver in the spine. It was enough that he’d seen the face of the other half of his soul and held her hand, even if your time were as fleeting as a breath.

_But it isn’t. It isn’t._

You caught his stare, and your hand fluttered against your arm where you’d wrapped them around your legs. “What?”

He shook his head, and looked away.

“I hate that,” you said suddenly, startling him. “I’m usually good at reading people, but I can’t read you.”

You’d looked away when he turned, and his chest squeezed. It was difficult for him to speak his mind, but for you, only for you, he would try.

“I was wondering what you were thinking about.”

You looked back, your eyes tracing the shape of his face, the line of his mouth, as if the answer might be there. It surprised him when you answered. “They say the dead only wish the living to be happy, but I don’t know if I’ll ever be happy. I don’t know if I should take Rhysand’s offer, so that I can at least be useful.” 

“Were you very close with your family?”

“My parents raised us in the estate, trying to keep us from the politics of the court. For a long time, Olga, Sasha and I only had each other,” you said, remembrance in your voice, and the words began to fall like rain, as if you couldn’t help it. “I wonder now if that had been a mistake. We were all so naïve, plotting against Nacola for what she’d become. We thought it was impossible to fail because we were doing the right thing.”

Your eyes were tearing up and he understood that this was your way of coming to terms with your grief. You didn’t think you had a right to be part of the gathering downstairs, but you needed as much a release as everyone else.

Azriel wished he knew how to comfort you. He’d never been comforted himself, so he didn’t know how to give it. So the silence stretched instead, until your grief passed, like clouds covering the moon.

When you recovered, you asked, “Do you have family, Azriel?”

He didn’t want to tell you of the family that bore him, of the parting gift his half-brothers had given him. “The Inner Court is my family.”

You seemed to understand. “Dead or estranged?”

He couldn’t meet your eyes. “Estranged.”

He felt you running it through your head, and felt you wait. He wanted to tell you everything, but it was a dark tale, better kept inside a locked box and hidden under the bed. He didn’t want you to see it, didn’t want you to look at him differently.

“What do you do for Rhysand?” you asked him instead.

“If you stay, I will tell you,” he said. He doesn’t mean to refuse you again, but this was political now. It had to do with the Night Court, not his own affairs. It wasn’t his to say.

“I spent half a day at Mor’s side, so I know she’s the administrator. Amren figured out my story faster than everyone else, so she’s the tactician. And I can imagine Cassian shouting orders at an army. But you…” You stopped, and a strange expression came over your face.

When you left the statement hanging and had turned back to your own musings, he couldn’t help but wonder, “What do you think then?”

In the courtyard, a song ended, and both of you listened to Rhysand addressing the people.

“If I stay, I will tell you,” you returned cryptically when applause followed the High Lord’s closing speech. “I’ve told you too much and you’ve told me nothing. That’s not how these things go, you know.” You started to unfold yourself. “We should go back.”

The opening strains of the last song began, and Azriel gave in. “I was thinking that you should dance at least once tonight,” he murmured.

Your head snapped toward him, and he was afraid to look and see that he’d overstepped his bounds. But he hoped too, so he forced himself to meet your eyes. He didn’t know if the uncertainty there was yours or they were only reflections of his.

“Is that a statement,” you said, “or a question?”

He held out a hand, and bent at the waist, hiding his face. “Will you dance with me?”

In the space of a thundering heartbeat, he thought of everything that could go wrong, everything he was giving the chance to happen.

But then you took his hand, your fingers soft as they traced the damage that were inflicted there from his painful childhood, and he knew he would never be able to let you go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys like this. As always, comments and feedback are welcome!
> 
> Stay safe and healthy, everyone.


	4. Chapter 4

Perhaps Azriel was one of the fae he warned you about—the ones who stole mortals. It was a small relief that you’d made your decision long before his gentle hands settled on the curve of your waist, guiding through the steps with the ease of an old dancing partner. It was a small consolation to know that it had nothing to do with the way it made you feel when he pressed your hand against his heart, steady against the pounding of yours.

A part of you did not release him willingly after the music ended.

When you returned to the group, Elaine asked if your headache was better, and you said it was, aware that the Inner Court was listening. You made no mention of Azriel, but Nesta’s eyes darted between the two of you. There was something like sorrow—or pity—in them, as if she knew something the others did not yet, because she’d seen it before.

You didn’t know what Feyre’s reasons had been, but you knew what yours were. Rhysand was right. You could not leave things as they were. Deposing Nacola was never the end goal. Keeping your people free was, and that end remained out of sight.

The Night Court was powerful after years of isolation. Under the starlit sky and a thousand faelights, Velaris put all of your cities to shame, pulsing with heady energy. As you left the villa, you found that the dancing had spilled out into an informal encore on the streets. Several strains of music played all at once from different directions, somehow managing to avoid cacophony. A woman with tree bark hands proffered a tray of sparkling drink, the smell of honey and alcohol cloying in your throat. A child tugged at the back of your gown, marveling at the shimmer of its beads, just before his mother pulled him away with a hurried apology.

They looked harmless now, but underneath that façade, you could glimpse the creatures men feared to speak of even in the warm light of day.

A red cap and a hunched figure waved from an alleyway. You raised your hand to wave back, but someone steered you away and shielded you with their body as a couple of young males recklessly chased each other through the crowd. You didn’t need to look to know who it was, but you did anyway. The shadows around Azriel were thick, an impenetrable veil that no light could pierce and no one wanted to come too close to. The Azriel from the tower was hidden away. Everyone else masked nothing, their faces half-bathed in gold, half-submerged in shadow, faces harsher, smiles sharper, stripped of any human glamour, beautiful and terrible.

When you caught your reflection on a dark shop window, you looked like a ghost drifting among them in a pale dress.

The streets became quiet, and the shops gave way to sleeping houses. Before a door that seemed like so many others, Elain pulled you in and asked if you wanted to stay the night. Behind her Nesta’s face was stone, but you felt the silent plea to accept. It almost broke your resolve. You wanted to take the offer more than anything.

“Next time,” you told her, leaning forward to kiss both cheeks.

“It was nice to meet you,” she piped up, and you understood Nesta’s protectiveness. Such a sweet girl didn’t belong in war. There were little enough truly good things in the world.

You bowed at Nesta, infinitely grateful for the offer, even if you could not take it. When you looked back up, the door was shut.

The audacity made you smile. She hadn’t just shut you out: she had shut the entire Inner Court and its High Lord out.

If Rhysand minded, he gave no sign of it. He took the spot at your side while Mor and Cassian drifted ahead, talking quietly.

Maybe he could read your mind, as the stories said, because he answered your unspoken question without prompting. “They have not been fae for weeks. They need time and space to address the changes, on their own terms.” He looked at you. “I overheard something about a headache. Perhaps it was not a good idea to push you so far today.”

“It’s gone now,” you said. “And I’m glad to have seen what I could of the performance.”

He nodded, and you wondered if this was as good a time to say your piece—to get it over with before it ate at you, but you saw you’d reached the square you’d arrived in earlier, and knew that flying lay not further ahead. You dreaded the feeling of the ground disappearing under your feet once more. You never knew you feared heights so much until today.

Rhysand noticed your hesitation and smiled. “Cassian’s wings are healing well, but it would take more time before he could fly as well as before. Azriel should traumatize you a little less.”

Cassian’s grumbled about underhanded comments as Rhysand spread his wings and took flight. Mor wrapped an arm around his shoulders, winking down at her as he bore her after her cousin.

Azriel held out his hand, pulling you close as if to dance again. Immediately, you shut your eyes, digging your fingers against his shoulders, waiting for the sureness of solid ground before you’d even left it. Air rushed under the first wingbeat, and you counted in your head.

Azriel spoke your name quietly.

“Is it over?” you asked, cracking your eyes open.

Indeed, you were already on the balcony. It was just your legs that hadn’t quite registered the fact yet.

“Was that better?” Azriel asked.

“I am…a little less traumatized.”

Mild concern gave way to muted amusement. The Azriel from the tower was back, the one who spoke only for your ears, with that secret light behind his eyes that made it hard to breathe. “Of all the things to fear.”

“Everyone has their flaws,” you retorted. “Only the gods are perfect.”

He tilted his head, and you stepped away, fearing he would hear the pounding of your heart.

Self-conscious, you felt the eyes boring at your back. You glanced back at the spacious room, but the others were immersed in their own world. Cassian was pouring drinks, and Rhysand and Mor were talking quietly by the fire. Then, as if it were your attention that drew them and not the other way around, they looked at you. Cassian raised his glass invitingly.

They’d asked you to stay—asked, as if you had a choice, and they had acted as if you did. All day you had been fed, clothed and entertained, as a suitor might court a girl. As much as creatures of darkness could be kind, they had tried to be.

It wasn’t fear for yourself that rooted you to the spot—it was fear of making another mistake for your people to suffer. And because the consequences of your actions would not resolve itself even if you stood in regret over the balcony of the House of Wind for years, you forced your feet to take you inside.

Cassian passed Azriel a glass, and when Mor offered you one in turn, you didn’t hesitate.

You raised your glass in solemn salute to the High Lord of Night. “To the king of the starlit city,” you said, “May I serve you well.”

Cassian, already mid-drink, choked in surprise. You forced yourself to keep looking at Rhysand, gauging his reaction while Mor hit Cassian’s back with more force that you thought necessary.

Rhysand searched your face for a long time before lifting his own glass, “To the House of Dunia. May I be worthy of your fealty.”

You relished the burn of liquor on your throat, bitterness washing away bitterness. You saw Azriel shift from the shadows, the firelight catching on this face. There’s no triumph in them, no proud gloating as you feared. Just hesitation, a kind of regret. You didn’t understand it.

After more words of welcome, Mor relayed the report from the markets. Outside, the night turned blustery, snowflakes whirling against the glass. A series of unfinished paintings leaning near an easel by the doors caught your eye, and you found yourself drifting away, only half-listening as you realized they were portraits of the Inner Court, drawn with a caring hand.

“Feyre made them,” Rhysand said, appearing at your side.

“They’re very beautiful.”

“She paints us in a kinder light than we deserve.” There was love in the way he spoke of her, so much that it made you wonder what Nesta saw in him that she did not trust. “I did not ask for you to swear to me.”

The High Lord emitted power that made you feel cold, but you braced yourself, refusing to cower. “You tried so hard to make me stay. I thought that was what you wanted.”

These games always made you feel as if you were walking on ice, the price of miscalculation terrible. But your family was dead—you had already been stripped of everything that mattered. Your perception of risk had become skewed with an indifference to failure.

“Bravery,” he said, “and insight. You showed these through your actions. It seemed a shame to waste them, when death itself refused to take you yet.”

“And what use is bravery and insight to your court?”

Rhysand, as with Nesta, did not take your bluntness amiss. “The Black Queen has offered me an alliance, claiming a change of heart. Do you believe her?”

You frowned, tugging at the nuances of the question. You decided on honesty. “That depends.” At Rhysand’s curious look, you said, “The Black Queen never moves without the White Queen. They are a pair so to speak. They have no fear for each other, and leave their shared boundaries unmanned so that their forces could concentrate on external threats.”

Rhysand’s eyes narrowed. “Is that true?”

You held his eyes. “That’s what I know.”

He hummed under his breath, then surprising you, he said, “I believe you. I will ask you about mortal concerns from now on.”

“As the lord wishes.”

His face thawed a little. “I did not invite you to my court lightly. Every time a mortal has betrayed me, my people have suffered. But I have been saved by a mortal as well, and I hold her dear above all else. You have the same drive, the same selflessness, but I would have you help me willingly, or not at all.”

You bowed your head, torn between believing him and not. You’d spent too long being lied to to believe easily now. “As long as you are against Hybern, and mean no harm to my people, I am your willing servant.”

A hand fell on your shoulder. “As long as you are against Hybern, and mean no harm to mine, you are my friend.” He saw your walls crack, and took it as a good sign. “Amren has theories about how you survived, if you want to hear them.”

“I do,” you said, hope bubbling unbidden inside you. “Thank you, High Lord.”

He smiled wryly. “Rhysand,” he reminded. 

Your throat was aflame when you woke, blankets tangled all around your legs and half off the bed as if you’d thrashed in your sleep. It took a moment for context to sink in, for the room to make sense. By the angle of the light, it was mid-morning. There was a cup of still warm chocolate and some sugared biscuits left on your bedside, and the dress bought by Mor had been hung up by the armoire, so Nuala or Cerridwen must’ve come by.

You weren’t sure what you were supposed to do now. You dressed restlessly, loosely plaiting your hair before going out. You decided you were most likely to find the others in the dining hall, if anyone were awake at all.

You met Amren on the way to the dining hall, and was greeted with a blunt, “I heard you’re staying.”

You couldn’t tell if the news pleased her or not; there was something hawkish in her gaze. You nodded in answer.

“Will you come with me?”

Of all the Inner Court, you were wary of her most, because you knew her least. Her request now was suspect; you couldn’t help but feel cornered.

It was likely that was the intention. Perhaps it was another test. You might come to regret it later, but you let yourself rise to the challenge.

You nodded again.

She smiled, the line of it sliding over her face like a wound. She turned and beckoned for you to follow without further explanation.

At a bend in the hallway, she disappeared, though you were right behind her. You looked both ways, startled, and stifled a scream as a hand grasped your arm and pulled. You fell against a wall and found it pliant, illusory. You straightened immediately to find yourself in a dim, narrow corridor, Amren’s silver eyes glimmering like a pair of moons.

The walls brushed against your arm as you followed her down and down many steps. The stone seemed to swallow all sound. When you spoke, your voice seemed cut off, without echo.

“Where are we going?”

The last time you were in a dark passageway, you intended to kill yourself.

“To my home in the city.”

“You don’t live here?”

“When you’ve known people for centuries, you find the best way to keep the peace is to have a little pocket of space kept secret, inviolate.”

“I wouldn’t know about centuries,” you said candidly. “But I agree about getting tired of people.”

Ahead, you saw that you were coming to the end of the way, a dead end. This fact didn’t seem to faze Amren. You held your tongue as she kept going, until the wall was right before you. She winked over her shoulder and stepped forward. She disappeared.

You stared at the blank wall, alarmed at the possibility of ft to die dying in a tunnel of stone. Before you could glance back to see if the way were still open, a hand again reached through, dismembered, and pulled you forward. You shut your eyes, prepared to hit resistance, and instead found bitter cold biting at your face, your open collar, your exposed hands.

Then there was light beyond your eyelids, and you opened your eyes to find you were outside, in a small clearing. The formidable height of the mountain rose behind you, and Amren looked like a cat that had gotten into the cream with no one the wiser.

You returned her gaze with wonder and little cautiousness. You thought she’d leading you to a secret room. The outdoors were completely unexpected.

“Were those the stairs Mor spoke of?” Surely you hadn’t just climbed down ten thousand steps.

“No, this one’s a shortcut. I suspect it was made for a High Lord’s mistress, or maybe a princeling had a habit of sneaking out unnoticed. You might find it preferable to being flown or trudging the long way down.”

“I’m allowed to use it?” you repeated, not sure you heard correctly.

“Considering it let you through unscathed, I would say so.”

She spoke of it as if there had been a possibility that you would not.

The city was hushed as you entered the outskirts, some windows still shut, others revealing light shadows and letting out a bit of smoke from cooking breakfast. It’s a downcast day, and you had no coat. You could feel the edge of a storm nipping at your exposed skin, tugging at the restless energy beneath.

To your surprise, you found yourself at the restaurant from last night. The proprietress greeted you both with delight, and took Amren’s last minute order without batting an eye. A glass of lemonade was offered while you waited at one of the tables, unable to escape Amren’s silent attention. When the food arrived, you gestured at the waiter to serve Amren first, to which she shook her head.

You looked at the goblet in her hand, swirling with a thick dark liquid. “You’ve eaten?”

“We should discuss my diet _after_ you’ve eaten,” she said.

You swallowed, unable to look away now. You had a nagging inkling of what she was drinking, all of a sudden. “ _Do_ you eat?”

“I require sustenance, as all things do.”

You breathed deeply, and thought of steaks, freshly cut, barely grilled, blood spilling over the meat when speared by a fork. _This isn’t any different_ , you told yourself. _Not very different at all._

“You’re thinking about it.”

“I can’t help it.”

“Are you frightened of me now?”

“I am always frightened of you,” you said.

She clicked her tongue. “And you’re still coming to my house?”

“I lost my sense of self-preservation somewhere at the start of this week, it seems.”

She pointed at your plate: poached eggs, tomatoes and potatoes, slices of ham, though you caught the curve of a smile at the edge of her mouth. “Eat.”

Under Amren’s watchful gaze, you didn’t take long to eat, and when she was satisfied you were finished, she rose languidly from the table and motioned for you to follow.

Amren’s house was tucked between two jewelers, their storefronts adorned like ladies at a grand ball, dripping jade, sapphires, rubies. Inside, your shoes sunk into plush carpets, and you wondered if Amren was also a jeweler or just a hoarder, because there were little carved boxes everywhere, spilling gold doubloons, egg-shaped emeralds, strings of pearls.

The door shut behind you, and the niggling doubt at the back of your head intensified. Still, you bid your feet forward, up the stairs where Amren had disappeared. It opened to a large open space. If there had been other rooms before, it had been torn down to make a single chamber. There was a small lounge under a large window, blankets trailing on the floor, and a pillow half-hidden under it.

“There is a box on that table. Do you see it?”

She pointed at a glass desk set against a wall. As you approached, you couldn’t help but study the other objects scattered on the surface: a jar with a ship in its body, a rose under a glass cover, a simple time-weathered box with a broken seal. The box was plain and unadorned compared to the others, but it made tiny pinpricks like needlepoints dance across your skin.

Keeping the hesitation from your voice, you called back, “This one?”

You found her at your shoulder, looking at you intently. “That box once held all the evils of the world. It is empty now, but the spell that guards it is as potent as ever. A single touch would kill a human.”

A chill ran down your spine. “I will take your word for it.”

You could see in her stormy-grey eyes what she had in mind, even if she didn’t say it loud. “The mountain stairs didn’t kill you. I think this one wouldn’t either.”

“What makes you think that?”

When you looked at her in blank silence, she explained, “When Feyre was given the essence of the High Lords, it was to give life, so that when she woke up, she found she had absorbed the very magic that sustained each court. The spell on your castle also held the essence of the High Lords, but it was to negate each other and create a space devoid of all magic forever. When you razed the castle, I think the magic looked for another vessel and chose you. That’s why you didn’t die then, and why you likely won’t die now.”

“You don’t sound very certain.”

She shrugged. “Nothing is certain. Touching the box is dangerous, but so was breaking an ancient enchantment.”

“Maybe I’ve learned from that mistake already.”

“If you don’t wish to do this, that’s your choice. But I can’t feel any magic on you, which means it lies dormant. It needs something powerful to draw it to the surface. Hence, this particular box.”

You knew she knew you were just delaying at this point, but you’re grateful she allowed you those few seconds more to harden yourself. It was one thing to know that something had to be done, another to prepare yourself for it. You were already bearing the consequences of one impulsive run in with magic. 

You breathed deeply, then touched the box.

Pain made the world go white. You tumbled into nothingness, your insides burning. You grit your teeth against the pain, trying to hold it in. The box in your hands pulsed in anger, and you slammed into the ground, empty-handed. You gasped into smoke-filled air, blinking against the sweltering heat of a thousand fires. Screams rose in a cacophony all around: men slaughtering each other in the mud, women wailing in the streets as they wept at the corpses.

Your heart twisted in your chest as you looked at the wreckage. You told yourself it wasn’t real, that it hadn’t happened yet. In the distance, you could see a crowned man in gleaming silver armor, standing in a hill of corpses. When he swung his sword to relieve a soldier of his head, you saw the insignia of Hybern on his chest. The recognition of it had you stumbling forward, hatred pulling your limbs against incredible pain.

The king of Hybern watched you approach and held out his hand invitingly. His mouth formed your name, and the sound of it in your head made you scream as the world burned.

Azriel stood near one of the bookshelves, wondering if you liked to read as well. You’d mentioned that you’d read about the castle spell from a diary, but that could mean you liked to read as a whole. Elsewhere, Cassian’s fevered footsteps creaked up and down the aisles, and every now and then, Azriel saw the pile on his arms growing taller. Cassian had also seen the book Nesta was reading, and as expected, decided he’d give Nesta an entirely library. Azriel barely managed convince him that Nesta might appreciate a few chosen titles instead of workmen barging in to install a collection at her house.

Of course, Cassian had tried to wheedle him into popping into Nesta’s old home to check exactly what she liked, which was cheating. Cassian promised to find out what _you_ liked in exchange. Azriel stood his ground, if only because it was unnerving for Cassian to find something he was actually tempted by.

Cassian made a frustrated grunt near a corner, and Azriel chuckled as he leaned in to inspect a book. Amren had outsmarted them all that morning, slipping you away before any of them could come with. He hoped she didn’t go too far.

He had barely pulled the book out of the shelf when pain burst in his chest. The book fell at his feet, and distantly, Cassian asked sharply what was wrong. Azriel didn’t answer, feeling the air squeezing around him.

In the muddled confines of his mind, he felt the bond snap taut across space and distance, thrown wide open.

The world spun between the space of a heartbeat, and the shop melted against the darkness, replaced by white walls, and jewels glittering against He had no eyes for Amren as she stood to the side, because you were on your knees, engulfed completely in blue fire. It snaked up your hands, your hair, casting a pale otherworldly tint over everything.

Immediately, he fell before you, reaching out.

The vision had him in its thrall before he even touched it. Blood soaked into his knees, dead eyes stared up everywhere. He heard the nock of an arrow, the sound of his nightmares, and looked up at the hill of corpses to see the King of Hybern with an ash bolt. Azriel’s wound throbbed in bitter memory, and the vision turned on itself.

He’s back in the castle chamber. The Cauldron sat in the dais. Rhysand, Cassian and Mor lay in a lifeless heap around it. Worse of all, you still knelt before the king’s feet, your dress torn and bloody, an open wound dripping down your arm. The crossbow is aimed at your heart.

He screamed. The force of it tore from his lungs as he lunged. He saw you clamp your hands over your ears, and blue fire engulfed the room as your own screams drowned his.

As quickly as it came, it was gone. The castle was gone, replaced by silence, by white walls and jewelry. You slumped forward, falling like a rag doll, blue fire flickering out. His arms lifted of their own accord, pulling you against his chest, crushing your shaking form to his.

There’s movement at the corner of his eye, and he sets upon it, fear sharpening into a knife.

“Azriel,” Amren warned, sensing the release of some dark thing from its leash.

Azriel saw the shape of his name on Amren’s mouth, but all sound had gone from his ears. He’s raw, untethered. Darkness engulfed the room: shadows blocked out the light from the window, snuffed out the lamps.

“ _Shadowsinger_ ,” Amren hissed, her eyes flickering like smoke behind glass.

A growl issued from his throat in answer, the darkness hardening around her, squeezing in.

Amren scowled, eyes going white as the wards snapped back into place. The force was akin to a mountain falling over his shoulders. He caught it with brute force, and held his ground. Magic long hidden, left unused, streamed out of him with wild abandon, pouring out without restraint. It brings with it all the other things he’s long repressed, his brothers’ faces looming before him like giants, their mouths wide with glee as they lit his hands on fire. The laughter went on and on in his ear, aging with the years, fueling the darkness with his pain, until that of the King of Hybern’s joined in.

At the first peal of that particular laugh, you flinched in his arms, a sound of pain escaping your throat.

Amren used that split second of distraction to slip into his defenses. She cuts off his air, invisible fingers wrapped tight around his lungs, and he could take it, had endured worse, when he hears the ragged gasp from your throat. You twisted in his arms, just as unable to breath. Immediately, he gave way, shouting surrender at Amren.

Amren released him, and you gasped greedily for breath. He held you closer, penitent, wretched.

Your eyes fluttered open, and you braced your hands against his shoulders to lift your head. You’re pale as death, the lines drawn around your eyes. War still played out behind them, barely subdued as they watched Amren bend over and picked up the offending box. It fell with a thud inside a wastebasket.

Then she conjured a glass of water in her hand and offered it to you. Azriel pulled you to your feet and guided you to a chair where you drank sparingly at first, then steadily until you finished it.

Azriel chafed at the way Amren watched you, like some uncut gem worth its weight in lives. He jerked his chin toward the wastebin, dragging her attention. “Please tell me you didn’t give her Pandora’s box.”

Amren narrowed her eyes at him. “Alright, I won’t.” She held up her hand at Azriel’s oncoming reprimand. “I tested her first on the mountain, and I warned her explicitly about possible death.”

She had the audacity to look to you in confirmation, and when you nodded, she arched an eyebrow at him.

“Why are you here, Azriel?” Your quiet question was all that stopped him from barring his teeth at her.

“Yes, why are you here?” Amren echoed.

Years of experience let the lie slip easily from his tongue. “I had a report to give.” With Amren’s wards back in place, he couldn’t reach into the shadow realm to give her a particularly useless one, but he did have an especially messy draft of Lucien and Tamlin’s movements for the last few days on hand. He gave it to her, knowing full well nothing irritated Amren more than a chaotic report.

Amren took one look at it and knew.

You shifted beside them restlessly. “I should–”

Amren redeemed herself when she remembered Rhysand’s other instructions, listed explicitly by Azriel beforehand. “Rest for a while,” she told you. “I can have food brought in too, if you want.”

“That’s fine. It might be urgent,” you worried, indicating the report.

Amren threw the report behind her, where it hit the wall and fell in a sad heap. “It’s not. I’d rather discuss you. I didn’t expect you to break both the spell _and_ my house’s wards. I’m surprised you’re even awake and coherent.”

“I’m alright,” you said.

You were not. Azriel could feel the hum under your skin, though you didn’t show it on your face.

Amren arched an eyebrow at him, feeling it too. “Maybe she’s in shock. I can’t tell with mortals.”

“You said the box would kill a mortal, but it didn’t kill me,” you intervened, drawing the topic away from your state.

It worked on Amren. “I said it would kill a human,” she corrected quickly.

“It’s the same thing.”

“No. It’s not.”

You looked at Azriel with furrowed brows. “Isn’t it?”

Amren explained. “Mortal means short-lived, human means magic-less. There’s no doubt now that the castle spell is inside you, powerful enough to reduce a precious artifact to kindling but pliable enough to leave spells alone until they attack you. Hence, not human.” She deliberately refused to look at Azriel as she added, “We’ll have to test your mortality some other time.”

Azriel swept his gaze menacingly around the room, pinpointing every jewel Amren might be fond of and letting her know he can and will throw them into the Sidra.

Amren folded her arms and glared at him.

“Can you remove it?” you cut in.

“Remove it?” Amren repeated incredulously. “It’s not a tumor, it’s blood magic. It’s woven into your veins by now.”

“Can you or can’t you?” you asked defiantly.

“I can,” Amren said, rising to the challenge. “But it will take time _and_ it will probably hurt.”

The look on your face was dangerous. It spoke of indifference to pain. It would not do to let you continue your current path, not when he’s afraid you will make your mind up on the spot.

“It will rain soon,” he said, drawing your attention to the fast-moving dark clouds outside the window. “I’ll take you home.”

Immediately, he saw the ‘no’ forming on your tongue when you remembered the chucked report in a corner.

You stood, and inclined your head formally at Amren. “Thank you for your time.”

Amren’s brows were high on her forehead. “Don’t thank me. I was motivated by my own curiosity.”

“And I’m sorry about your box.”

“How polite,” Amren muttered quietly as you moved toward the stairs.

“We’re still talking about this,” he warned her.

“Amren,” you suddenly said, making them both look up. You were by the stairs, looking perturbed. “The box–you’ve held it before?”

Amren cocked her head curiously. “Once–very briefly.”

“What did it show you?”

 _Your deepest fears_ , Azriel knew. _Nightmares. Old trauma. All of it magnified to lengths that could break a lesser mind._

“I’ve forgotten,” Amren shrugged. “It wasn’t very interesting.”

It was a lie. Azriel could still feel the imprint of blows on his body, the heat of fire on his hands. Every scar he’d ever carried stung like open wounds. Amren was right, you shouldn’t even be on your feet. It was a testament to your will that you were walking unaided, but he didn’t trust you to hold much longer.

You accepted Amren’s answer without further question and started down the stairs. He swept after you quietly, and when the first clap of thunder ripped through the walls, he saw you stop of the last step, hands raised to your ears. He knows why. Recognizes the sound of distant battle, the clamor of weapons.

He deliberately sets his feet heavily to warn you of his approach, and you pull your hands back down, moving on to open the door to the street. When he comes up beside you, you asked, “Am I needed back soon?”

He shook his head, though his mind rushed at what he expected was coming. “You don’t want to go back yet?”

“It seems a shame to, being here already,” you said.

Instinct wanted him you bring you straight back, to have you before a fire and served a hot drink and tucked in bed by the wraiths–but if you were having flashbacks…

He stepped out into the street, and held out his hand. “We’ll wait out the rain for a bit, then we’ll walk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a few revisions to this chapter compared to the original because I lost track of the flow after a hiatus. I hope you all don't mind!


	5. Chapter 5

The sky rumbled again, and you glanced up in concern at the mass of thick, gray clouds, ready to burst at any moment. You don’t know how long you had been walking, or how long you had to walk still. Azriel had said nothing when he led you first to a park, then off the main path to a thin needle of a track going up a hill.

You had barely taken your eyes off your feet when you slipped again, falling against Azriel’s supporting arm. You shouldn’t be this helpless outdoors, but months at court had taken its toll: you were as unsteady as a seaman on his first day at shore. And yes, maybe you were a little nauseous, and you should’ve taken Amren’s advice to rest, but you couldn’t bear the thought of the House of Wind’s winding halls. You needed air, _fresh air_ , not the memory of smoke. You needed to see for yourself that the world wasn’t on fire yet.

The vision was a trick, a play on your fears. You had to believe that.

Flushed and a little out of breath, you finally reached the crest, and startled to find a hut that you should’ve noticed long before. You would think your state much worse than you initially thought, if not for the fact that when you looked between Azriel and the hut, it flickered in and out of your periphery, betraying the presence of magic.

It looked just like any hut you might find in the woods, with worn stone walls, a thick wooden door and a brick chimney, currently spouting smoke. Azriel knocked once, and the door immediately opened.

A woman with the thickest locks of green hair beamed from the other side, her eyes like black pebbles.

“Hello!” she piped up, and you’re shocked to discover it was directed at you when she held out her hand, a polished brown like the rest of her. “I’m Helecine.”

You took her hand and introduced yourself.

“I’ve been waiting for _ages_ ,” she said, turning to Azriel with a brief attempt at being reproachful.

“Mira doesn’t like to fly, so we took the long way,” Azriel placated.

“Not that,” Helecine said, putting her hands on her hips. “Well, _also that_ –but mostly, you know I’m talking about the entire _century_ my invitation has been pending.”

Azriel inclined his head in further penitence. “The timing wasn’t in my hands.”

Helecine huffed, and you were beginning to wonder if you should give them time to sort themselves out in private when Helecine grabbed your wrist and dragged you inside. Immediately, you’re engulfed by the smell of food. Meat and paprika and thyme; bread and butter and caramel and wine. Your head whipped around, expecting to see a banquet squeezed into the cozy rooms, but all you saw was a flash of a kitchen, pots and pans simmering on stovetops, before you’re pushed into a small room and deposited into moss-cushioned couches.

Helecine grasped your hands between hears, and breathed deeply, eyes fluttering.

“Cinnamon,” she murmured. “and hearthfire.”

She darted out of the room, throwing back a muffled instruction to sit back for a while, just as Azriel appeared at the threshold.

“Azriel?” you asked. “What am I doing here?”

“One moment, please,” he said, going after the green-haired fae.

You swept your eyes around the room, then stood to peer out the wisteria curtains. There’s a small balcony beyond, looking out into more hills and trees. A table was set for two, and you tried not to feel like an intruder. You hadn’t protested at Azriel’s company because you suspected he was tasked to watch over you, but if you’d known beforehand that he had an appointment, you would’ve insisted on finding your own way back.

A flash of red caught your eye, and you blinked several times as a creature peered over the edge of the balcony. Its paws were round, claws digging into the wood to keep itself aloft.

Careful not to startle it, you knelt slowly. The creature had long, soft, reddish-brown fur, and a light face with tear markings and white badges. It twittered curiously, and you murmured gentle nothings in answer. Satisfied you weren’t dangerous, it squeezed through the railing and padded toward you. You held out a hand, which it sniffed, its nose damp. With your other hand, you patted its head.

You giggled a little when a rough tongue rasped against your palm. “I don’t have food,” you apologized.

It began to nibble nonetheless, tiny teeth scraping against flesh.

“Don’t you dare,” came Azriel’s sudden warning. It was low and threatening, and you jerked away from his shadow at your back.

Frightened, the little creature darted off the rails and disappeared.

You glared up at Azriel.

He arched an eyebrow at your expression. “Rico is a spoiled thing who expects food in return for harmlessness. You were this close to losing a finger.”

He held out a hand, and helped you stand. “He was cute, though.”

“I wonder if you’d think the same when you see his true form.”

“What’s his true form?” you asked cautiously.

“Bigger than this house,” Azriel said, pulling out one of the chairs on the balcony for you. When you didn’t move, he cocked his head. “Helecine will be back with food in a bit.”

“So I should go,” you said, moving for the door to the living room. His hands caught yours, soft, but unyielding. “Azriel, I don’t want to ruin your date. You should’ve said something in the first place.”

He opened his mouth, closed it, and seemed to reconsider his words. “I don’t have a prior meeting with Helecine. I brought you here because it’s a quiet place to pass the time while the rain lasts.”

You stilled.

“If it doesn’t please you–” Thunder ripped through the air, and the sky opened. Rain fell down in a thick sheets, splashing the edges of your dress. “We can move.”

You could see in his face that he meant it.

“Why aren’t you two seated yet?” Helecine’s voice interrupted.

You stumbled against Azriel as she swept out into the balcony, bearing a tray of two steaming soup bowls. It smelled divine, and your mouth watered at the scent alone.

She placed them on each setting, then waved a hand at the two of you. “Sit. Sit!”

After some hesitation, you sat at the chair Azriel had pulled out. When he remained standing, you glanced at him, silently indicating it was alright. When he’d finally taken the opposite seat, Helecine clapped her hands, startling you. She smiled apologetically at you, then grinned as tiny winking stars–fireflies–floated from the edges of the balcony, congregating into several open-topped globes around the ring. Their golden light pulsed erratically for a bit, then brightened as one.

“Helecine,” Azriel reprimanded.

Helecine arched an eyebrow at him. “It’s my house. My rules.” She pointed at his bowl. “Eat. I’ll bring the second course when you’re finished.”

Azriel muttered under his breath, then glanced under his eyelashes to judge your reaction. You turned determinedly to your soup, and finding nothing obviously wrong with it, sampled a bit.

Flavor burst on your tongue, and a moan escaped your lips. Immediately, you clapped a hand over your mouth, infinitely mortified, but Azriel’s sudden smile is brilliant, brighter than starlight. He bows his head toward his own soup, saving you from his gaze, but it takes quite a while before the fire on your face to cool.

“Good?” he asked, when you’d swallowed your second spoonful, determined not to make any more noises of pleasure.

You glared up at him, but there’s no bite in his teasing, and you can’t hold your gaze very long, not when he looked at you like that.

“Our food must be boring to you,” you muttered. “When you have all this.”

His silence was suspect, and you arched an eyebrow until he admitted, “It tastes like ash, most times.”

Your gut dropped. “But yesterday morning…”

“It was our food, just presented similarly to yours.”

“Oh.” He sounded apologetic, but you weren’t actually offended. It was just more evidence to the lengths of they went to be hospitable. “But it doesn’t harm you, does it?”

He shook his head. “The first time we met Feyre’s sisters, Nesta made all of us finish our plates.”

A grin split your face. “Did she?”

He told you about that trip, the first time they wrote a letter to the human queens. In return, you told him about Nacola receiving that same letter during a banquet, and how she’d dragged several not nearly drunk enough councilmen into meeting until the crack of dawn. It took some restraint not to tell him anything of what was discussed, because he listened so intently, his whole attention fixed not only on your words but also on your face, your expression, and at first you feared this was another way to get more information out of you, but he never picked up on the false crumbs you dropped to trip him.

You don’t know how Helecine knew, but just a few seconds after you’d finished, she came in again, replacing the soup bowls with twin plates of what you initially thought was white meat cutlets but turned out to be mushrooms, their flesh a little like chicken. Its tossed over a variety of leaves, many of which you weren’t familiar with, and the dressing is unlike anything you’ve ever tried, a mix between sweet and sour.

It hadn’t been very long since Amren had taken you to eat though, and you didn’t know how many more dishes Helecine planned to serve. You told Azriel this. He assured you that you didn’t have to eat more than you wanted, and inquired about breakfast, grown tense at the allusion to Amren’s diet. You insisted it didn’t put you off, describing the steak analogy. He stared at you first, and you’re afraid he took it amiss, but then he choked on a laugh, and you finally relaxed.

He drew you out of your pain, even if only for a moment, steering your thoughts toward shared interests. Talking to him was as natural as breathing. Holding back was like telling the sea not to return to the shore. Even if he might be doing it out of some command, he did it with the sincerity of someone who actually enjoyed your company.

On the third dish, quail eggs strangely drizzled in a sort of berry puree, you stopped Helecine’s abrupt departure with sincere praise. She demurred at you, but you knew it pleased her to hear it anyway.

“I wasn’t sure if my food would taste as nice to you. I’m very happy.”

“You have a restaurant in the city, surely?” you asked. You hadn’t even left and you already looked forward to her food again.

Helecine shook her head. “I don’t cook for other people anymore. Azriel is an exception, because I owe him my life.”

With that, she left again, and you looked at Azriel, waiting for an explanation.

“Helecine was part of the royal kitchen at the Summer Court. One day, nearly the entire court was poisoned, and every servant was ordered killed. I came upon her by accident, hiding in the Southern woods. Her story gave us the clues to track the whole thing down to Amarantha, and she was given asylum here before Rhysand shut the city off.”

He was downplaying his involvement, you knew, but you didn’t call him out on it. “I hope this isn’t a one time offer on her part,” you said instead.

“If you really like it, I’ll bring you again anytime you want,” he promised.

“It’s not that. I meant only that there are others who deserve the privilege more.” You didn’t allow him to protest. “She said it’s been a century. Did you forget it until now?”

“No,” he said. “But she’d told me to bring someone special.”

You paused, fork midway from plate to mouth as you stared wide-eyed at him. When he met your gaze evenly, you shut your mouth, feeling again those tiny moth wings fluttering in your stomach.

“Really, Azriel,” you chided mildly, “When you say things like that, a girl might misunderstand.”

_If I were any more obvious, a girl might run away._

But Azriel kept silent, swallowing the words down. They might just as easily push you away, and everything was going so nicely.

“I’d like to come back,” you admitted quietly, much later, “When you’re free.”

He watched your eyes light up when Helecine took a sizzling pan to the table, poured sugar, fruit and wine in it, and topped the fluffy meringue on your tiny plates with the steaming sauce. The tired lines on your face had smoothed, and you didn’t flinch at the rumble of thunder anymore. He’s glad to be able to do that, and more than happy to hear you wanted to come back, even if it said more about Helecine’s cooking than his company.

Helecine, of course, knew who you were from the start. It was hard not to, when she told him to bring someone special and it took him a century to come. He’d followed her to the kitchen immediately upon arrival, just to ensure she let nothing slip to you. He knew she would tell no one else. She had a mind of her own, however, and when she’d called out the fireflies, he feared it was all over. You weren’t stupid, you were the furthest from it, and he was certain you’d suspect something. But you’d only began to eat, oblivious, and instead of relief, he felt the fear shift, a fear that took full shape when it became apparent you thought all this a mere gesture of hospitality. He didn’t know what was worse: that you’d run from being courted or be utterly blind to it. Maybe he should’ve let Helecine interfere after all.

The rain had stopped long ago, but you didn’t seem to notice. Light mist rose from the earth, giving the air a new chill. Birds were slowly peering out of their nests, and he smirked when he spotted Rico on top of a large branch, looking at him with what could only be described as a glare. He had lived in these parts long before Helecine, but he’d grown fond of her. It couldn’t be helped, the two of them being suited each other. One liked to make food and the other loved to devour it.

The same could not be easily said of the two of you, but Helecine had thought so. S _he smells like cinnamon and hearthfire, and you like cedar and evening mist and smoke. It’s cozy, like winter nights before the fire with a warm drink._ It had been a strange way to look at it, but he liked it, yearned for it now that she had painted it so vividly for him.

He wondered if, a long time from now, if you both survived, you’d ever offer him food.

The wanting is physically painful, and he brushed it quickly from his mind. It wouldn’t do to ask for too much. It was already a miracle that you’d stayed, that you were here with him, and you looked almost happy. He wanted you to keep that, so that nightmares wouldn’t touch your sleep when you lie in bed that night.

You lingered at the door with Helecine for some time, talking about her food. She had refused to cook again for anyone else since the poisoning of the Summer Court, but as Azriel looked at her face while you praised her, he thought that you might one day draw her out of her seclusion. It was a long way away, but as he meant to keep you well-fed and happy for a long time, it was not so impossible.

The journey down the hill was very different from the way up, with the light of the afternoon sun making the damp grass glisten. You walked together without a word, but it’s comfortable, and there’s no need to fill it except to ask you if you’re still up for that walk when you near the bottom.

“Anything you’d particularly like to see? Something that caught your attention yesterday?”

“It would take several times before I get tired of anything here. You choose. I trust you in this.”

 _You choose_. It made him giddy with pleasure and anxiety. Showing people around was _not_ what he usually did. A host of possibilities rushed through his mind, everything and nothing suitable.

You suddenly stopped, looking at him with some concern. “I’m not taking you away from a legitimate meeting now, am I? Please, you have to tell me these things.”

You’d claimed you couldn’t read him last night, but you’d picked up on his slightest indecision, even if once again, you misinterpreted it.

“You seem to think I have people lining up for my company,” he said, trying for lightness.

“Yes, I do,” you said without hesitation. “I know I’ve only enjoyed your company so far, and I’d like to not make enemies by keeping you to myself.”

Damn everything to hell, he wanted to kiss you. Take your face between his hands and convince you there isn’t anyone else between gasps for air.

He felt the darkness inside him stir, pleased with the idea, and he drove his nails into his palm to recover himself.

“I worry for the company you must’ve kept before,” he said, “if you enjoy mine.”

You clicked your tongue impatiently. “None of that. If you think your company unfit, I’d have to think you’re doing this against your will.”

He took your hand, pressed it against his lips for a moment. “It isn’t, I promise.”

You didn’t pull away, but neither did you show any encouragement. You were even more unreadable than he was known to be, and without an answer, he released you, turning to more pressing matters.

“Would you like to see the artists’ quarter in daylight? It’s on the way to the House of Wind.”

He couldn’t offer his arm, knowing it was dangerous in plain sight like this, though he wanted nothing more. You’re no doubt already marked by most of the city, having been brought around by Mor yesterday, but he was a different matter. There were more people with a personal vendetta against him, people who would strike at anyone he held dear. Helecine had been a sanctuary, but this was a different matter now.

Some of the galleries and workshops were just opening up, their proprietors sleepily fighting the effects of the revelries that lasted till morning. You wound through them, talking to the artists, listening intently as they showed you their creations, explaining techniques and concepts. You flattered them immensely with your interest, and while he wasn’t blind to all else that moved, unable to completely disassociate himself from scanning every face and store you passed, he paid attention to what you might like.

Would you appreciate gifts? He could already see you protesting against them, no matter how he framed the giving. You might be persuaded to accept a useful one, but everything had already been provided. Mor herself had seen to your wardrobe, placing rush orders with her favorite tailors before you’d even woken, hopeful– _convinced_ –you would stay. He hadn’t paid attention to the packages that arrived just the night before you woke, but you wore a lot of blues, which he suspect was all her doing. You wouldn’t accept a third or fourth coat.

Jewelry? You didn’t even wear any of the ones Mor had chosen, using only the clip yesterday and a hair tie to your plaited hair now. He’d heard her muttering about replacing them with others that might be more to your taste.

The clip…it had been carved like a sword, and it was a strange choice for your first meeting with a High Lord. Now that he thought about it though, there were faint ridges on your otherwise soft hands – surely not old callouses, but was it really so impossible? He hadn’t forgotten how confidently you’d pinned him against the wall, the broken shards of a lamp pressed against his throat.

An idea formed in his mind, but he hesitated against it. It wasn’t a gift usually given in these circumstances, and yet – maybe it was the only one you might actually accept.

Your laughter at something a street painter said rang like bells on his ears, and he watched you good-naturedly wave your hands in refusal, or maybe denial. He came forward to investigate, but you quickly stepped away, leading him elsewhere. He looked back with suspicion to find the painter’s eyes sparkling as he watched you walk away.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” you said. “Your people are very forward.”

“What did he say?”

You shook your head. “Nothing,” you repeated. “I’m ready to go back now.”

You walked on in silence, taking the turn at the next block away from the artist’s quarters. Again, you showed that you were beginning to read him better than he did you, because you said, “Don’t hunt him down, please. I will not like it if you did.”

Would you really know, if he did? Glancing at you, he felt you actually might.

“I make no promises.”

You gave him a reproachful look, but saw that he was only teasing.

Mostly.

There was something else. He was staring at you a bit too much to miss it, but it’s precisely because you were deep in thought that he’s able to get away with it. There’s a stray lock of hair against your cheek that he’d been aching to brush away for minutes when you spoke.

“I haven’t seen anyone else with wings. You, Cassian and the High Lord have them, and it seems to mark you as being of the same kind, but I haven’t seen anyone like else like it.” You blinked up at him, a furrow in your brows. “Or is that something one doesn’t ask about?”

“You called us forward and you worry about asking the wrong questions?”

“Can’t be too careful.”

He smiled. “The three of us are Illyrian, and as far as I’m aware, we’re the only ones currently in Velaris.” It would be an immediate cause for concern if any of the others to set foot on the city.

Seeing the question on your tongue, he explained the difference between High Fae like Mor, and lesser fae like the inhabitants of the city.

“And Illyrians are High fae?”

“High fae would consider us lesser, but the lesser fae would not accept us either. We are more of a hazy in-between. Expendable air cavalry at most, useful but not a tragic loss.”

“And yet you occupy the highest positions in the land.”

He shrugged wryly. “Rhysand has always been unconventional – and he is the most powerful High Lord we’ve ever had, so who’s to argue with him?”

“You and Cassian and Mor and Amren might. I noticed your court is much less rigid than ours.” He’s pleased at this observation, even more so that you shared it with him. “You promised to tell me what you did for him.”

“Did I? I remember you promising you’d tell me what you guessed in turn.”

You gauged if he would yield first. But he was truly curious, and this once he wouldn’t give in. “Hm. Court charmer, I suppose. Royal recruiter?”

He didn’t know if he should be flattered or indignant. Charming was a double-edged blade.

“That’s not what you were thinking.” 

“I thought you couldn’t read what I think,” you countered mildly.

It would be easier if you’d said the words aloud yourself. He knew it couldn’t have gone over your head, you were far too clever for that. You were being far too clever now. It wasn’t comfortable for him to be the one giving answers instead of receiving them.

You don’t push him, even when minutes had passed and he had led you to a different square than the day before. Choosing the same one too often would allow others to set traps.

A sigh escaped your lips.

“You’re making me doubt my flying,” he said.

“It was less traumatizing than Cassian’s,” you said, looking at the height with no love. “But traumatizing nonetheless. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.”

“If I flew you for a day, you would.”

You stepped back from him, folding your arms. “I would throw up on you, I would.”

“Well,” he said, “You’ll run out of things to throw up eventually.”

“Don’t joke.”

“Forgive me. If you wish, we can take the stairs Amren took you through.”

You looked sorely tempted, but then you shook your head. “No.” You unfolded your arms, and came closer once more. “No, I should master this.”

“Aiming for godlike perfection after all?”

You glared at him, standing rigid but determined. “I am already perfect.”

He wrapped his arm around your waist, and with a single blast of his wings, took off. Your arms tightened around him, pressing infinitely close, and he breathed deeply before answering _._ “I am Rhysand’s spymaster.”

Your voice was very quiet, heard only because it was whispered to his ear.

“I know.”

 _How_? He wanted to ask, but he was afraid of the answer.

You blinked hazily at the dark, caught between dreaming and waking. There was the imprint of a hand running through your hair, infinitely comforting, and arms wrapped around you, holding you together. The nightmare lay beyond, through mist, or glass.

You don’t know how long it was before you sat up, unable to go back to sleep. The moonlight traced the shape of the room, the rumpled pile of your dress and boots on the floor. The return to the House of Wind had at last brought the exhaustion you’d suppressed to fore, and you’d stumbled into bed, meaning only to nap. By the height of the moon, hours had passed, and it was late evening.

You washed your face with ice-cold water, put away your clothes earlier and redressed quickly. The hallway was dark outside, and quiet. It was strange to think that all the rooms beyond were empty, that there was no else in the house. With your footsteps swallowed by the shadows, you felt like a ghost haunting these halls.

A pair of figures blocked your path, bowing as you approached.

“The Inner Court is at the drawing room, if you wished to join them,” Cerridwen said.

You don’t know how they knew you were awake but nodded your thanks. They did not follow as you took the steps and made your way toward the drawing room, or if they did, you didn’t know. Light flickered ahead: the door to the drawing room was open, and you could hear the mingling of voices, the chime of wine glasses.

Memory washed over you as potently as a vision. You’re back home, not at court, but at the family estate. Beyond the door would be Olga, plucking at the harp absently, your brother playing cards with your father, roaring with delight when he won. Your mother before the fire, petting the wolfhounds. Down the hall, servants voices would come, and with it the smell of chocolate and wine.

Never again. There will never be that again, all because of you. Rhysand had seen bravery and insight in you, but he didn’t know the truth. He didn’t know the true extent of your guilt.

Amren’s pronouncement weighted on your shoulders. You had avoided dwelling on it earlier, out of shock or perhaps an instinct not to be weak in public. Azriel had delayed it for hours, but now it coiled upon you like a curse. You could not come home. You could not belong here either. You might be able to save others, but your family had already paid the price. Despair wound its fingers around your lungs, and you felt it for the first time: the ice breaking, the numb falling away.

You whirled around, away from the warm room, past empty rooms, into a glass door and out into a small balcony, barely an alcove. You knelt on the cold stone and your head against the banister. A familiar voice was on the wind, haunted and grieving still. Like you, the pain for her was too fresh still. Despite your fealty to Rhysand, and all your brave words about a duty to your people, it still didn’t feel enough. There was no ground beneath your feet. You were falling without wings.

You looked out the edge and thought that you were looking at two skies, the lights of Velaris reflecting the night sky from above. The others would not miss you. You stayed there until the cold was on your veins again, until the words to the song had begun to make sense in your mind, had begun to take shape on your tongue.

Azriel leaned against the wall opposite the balcony, wrapped in shadows. He had been the one to send Nuala and Cerridwen to intercept you while he wrapped up the reports that came in, grimmer than before. He’d seen you make your way to the drawing room only to stop at the door and turn tail. The bond hurt between you, and it hurt now as he’s forced to stand back and watch.

The wraiths dropped by once, asking if they should fetch blankets. He shook his head and bade them to retire. You didn’t want comfort now. You needed time. The first loss always took longest to heal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took time, but I'm glad to be back! How are you all? 
> 
> (Crippling perfectionism is a curse, so I always appreciate comments, feedback, whatever's on your minds really!)


	6. Chapter 6

The strange red ceiling of your room was hazy through the cold mist of your breath. Nuala was a smudge of darkness bent halfway down the bed, spreading a kind of light balm over your hand.

“What’s that?”

“Whitelock,” the wraith said quietly, lifting her head to fix you a long look. “For the cold.”

Her eyes held the memory of last night, and your gaze falls to the rich expanse of the blankets, chastised despite the lack of censure. What had come as a sudden wave of grief, irresistible as if from a broken dam, dissipated in daylight. The hopelessness of the previous night seemed distant and small, and your recklessness seemed irrational.

When Nuala finishes, you bring your hand close to your nose. The bones were stiff, the joints ached, and the tips were dark as if stained by ink from days ago, but the smell of the mysterious salve brought to mind a field of flowers, still glistening with morning dew, giving relief.

“Do they all know?” you asked. The wraith is silent, though you knew she knew what you meant, and you persist. “Do they?”

“It is a secret,” the wraith finally said, standing to place the small clear jar of cream at your bedside.

The door opened and closed without sound, and Cerridwen came in with a steaming pot of what turned out to be tea. There was a plate of small sandwiches, a cup of small fruit.

“Is it alright if I take it to the dining room?” you asked the darker twin, urging yourself to salvage your name. What must they think of you now? 

The wraiths nodded with their characteristic inscrutability, and helped you dress without a word.

Mor and Rhysand were conversing lowly when you arrived at the dining room. You hesitated before the door, just out of sight, but the High Lord’s head snapped up in your direction. You bowed in greeting. When you straightened, Mor was at your side, she wore a strange expression quickly replaced by a smile as she looped your arms together and led you to the seat on Rhysand’s other side.

“The others left early, so go ahead and eat,” Rhysand said by way of greeting, forestalling your own formal greeting.

You saw his eyes fall on your gloved hands, though he said nothing. You found yourself the subject of their scrutiny for a while, eager to address their curiosity but unable to broach the issue yourself.

It was Mor who ended the impasse after what seemed like eternity.

“Are you alright?” She nodded at your hands. “Whatever warning Amren may have given, whatever test you may have passed, she should not have given you Pandora’s box,”

Your first thought was that the wraith had spoken true. They didn’t know you had nearly frozen in the balcony last night, letting the chill settle bone-deep. They had conjured another reason in its stead. You didn’t know what to feel.

“I’m alright,” you answered plainly.

She held out her hand, and unable to refuse, you let her pull a glove off. You hid your surprise at how the dark tint of your fingertips had faded so quickly into shadows, but Mor’s incredulity was plain on her face.

“Frostbite?” Rhysand mused aloud.

“It wasn’t the box,” you had to say. You didn’t want Amren blamed, and it was an excuse that wouldn’t hold anyway. Amren knew you’d been unharmed when you left her house.

“But how?” Mor insisted. “I thought Azriel brought you back. Surely, he’d known you were so cold.”

A defense sprung ready on your throat, but Rhysand beat you to it. “He did give her whitelock.”

Mor gave you back your hand, appeased somewhat.

“What’s whitelock?” you asked. It was twice you’d heard the name now.

“It’s a flower that once grew in the garden of the High Lord of Winter,” Rhysand said as he picked up his toast. “Azriel managed to get hold of some for Cassian’s wings a while back. He must’ve had a bit left in reserve.”

Though he didn’t say it out loud, it was clearly of great value. You had seen the scars on Cassian’s wings.

Azriel. There was little that must miss his notice. A secret was not a secret to him, but why keep it from the others? Why give you so precious a gift for so light, so stupid an injury? It’s not the first time he had done something inexplicable, and you found yourself looking toward the doors, willing him to appear.

Rhysand’s voice brought you back. “Amren says there’s more to learn about you, but if you’re uncomfortable going forward, I will tell her so.”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” you said.

The High Lord looked at you askance, judging the weight of your lie. You kept your face blank, because although you were afraid and wanted to accept the concession he offered, you couldn’t. This was your body, your soul – you wanted to know what had become of it, even if you wouldn’t like the answer. 

“What do you like to do?” Mor asked, steering the conversation to lighter things. “Do you play instruments? Paint? It gets boring up here.”

You couldn’t imagine staying cooped up here without useful work. Surely you had to earn your keep some way. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

Mor and Rhysand exchanged a look, prompting Mor to frown. “She should rest, though.”

“I’m really alright,” you said, though the statement wasn’t directed at you.

After a while, Mor relented under the twin weights of the gazes aimed at her. “Fine, but we’re getting you a warmer coat first.”

You began to accompany Mor to the city, where she spoke with workers and listened to concerns from the merchants or their wives. She asked more than once if you’d rather sit out the hours on a café, out of the sun and chill wind, or to shop, since an account was set up for you with the merchants, but you refused each time. You were seeing the fae in a new light, and you didn’t want to look a moment away in case the illusion faltered.

On the third day, you watched children play a game of tag among the stalls. A small girl, faster and a little more clever than the others, shrieked as she won the box of sweets wagered by one of her playmates. To your surprise, she approached you shyly, and held it out. You glanced at the others. Maybe the sweets were poisoned. Maybe they would taste like ash. But there was no mischief in the children’s eyes, just open expectation. You held out both hands, and the smile that split the girl’s face was blinding as sunlight. The other children crowded closer. You opened the lid under the heavy attention of a small audience.

They were chocolates, each the size of a marble and individually flavored. Here was one sprinkled with gold leaf, another encrusted with candied fruit, another topped with cream, and so on.

You glanced up at the children, counting, then smiled a little to alleviate their obvious nervousness, though you were just as anxious yourself. “Which should I try first?”

Voices overlapped as numerous fingers pointed to different pieces, arguing for its superiority. Your walls crumbled into ruins as you watched them, harmless, innocent. The horns and the fangs would always be unsettling, but they couldn’t help those any more than they could help having hands and feet.

“Are you sure?” you found yourself asking, picking each one up and holding it out to its guarantor. “Why don’t you try it again?”

You had managed to give all the chocolates away when the children realized they had ended up eating their own gift. Indignant pouts and protests resulted in a parent or two finding the opening to approach, indirectly promising you a variety of dishes as they consoled their children. Some of them asked nervously if you were bothered by the affair, as if afraid you found them troublesome. It was perturbing to find them just as afraid of you than you were of them.

“What’s your name?” a small whisper came at your side, when most of the others had drifted away. You looked down to see a girl barely tall as your waist looking wide-eyed up.

You knelt carefully to her eye-level. You couldn’t unsee the long pointed ears or the blood-red hue of her eyes, but you found you could look past it for a moment to answer her.

“You’re new,” she said. “Did you come with your family?”

Tears sprang behind your eyes. You swallowed thickly before answering. “No. My family’s gone.”

Though you didn’t say it, understanding permeated her tiny frame. You held yourself still as stone as she reached out to touch a finger on your cheek. You hadn’t even realized a tear had fallen. When you did not move, she cupped her small hands on your cheek in an unnervingly adult gesture.

_There, there._

There was grief in her eyes too, but her tears had long run out. Your own began to fall in earnest, your grief had not yet run its course.

Mor found you behind a column later, wiping your eyes. She didn’t ask, but she took you to dinner at a restaurant by the river, plying you with food and careful conversation.

“Mor,” you said at a lull during dessert. Lemon sherbet topped with cream, sour and sweet. “I can oversee the finishing work on the western portion so you can spend more time in the northern section.”

Mor looked surprised. She tempered it with caution. “People will approach you more freely,” she warned.

You nodded. “I understand.”

If she had asked why, you would’ve tried to find a way to express the mix of emotions in your chest, eager to rebuild something, anything, after finding destruction so easy in comparison. But she didn’t.

Mor might’ve fleshed out a made-up history overnight, but the next day, your lack of family seemed to have become common, though unspoken, knowledge. Mor went with it, explaining that you were a survivor from Under the Mountain with Amarantha. The looks of understanding sent your way made you feel terrible, because it was undeserved. A nightmare had crept into your bed the previous night, laughing at your efforts to rebuilt something you’ll probably also destroy.

You worked hard to forget its words. You read through all the plans and reports several nights running, trying to dispel deceit with sincerity, but also because you were afraid to close your eyes.

The headaches came unbidden, like punishment. Sometimes it was a flash of color, or the whiff of a dish steaming in some familiar herb. Nausea would rise up without warning, and a ringing would fill your ears. It usually passed in a minute or so, leaving only the side effect of hovering, concerned people startled by your sudden blank look. You had to tell Mor you hadn’t been sleeping well, still adjusting to an unfamiliar bed. You didn’t tell her you’d barely been sleeping at all.

Today, the headaches came twice within the same hour. Mor dropped the plans she’d been studying and had you halfway down the street when you came to. You dug your feet in, insisting you were fine, but then found yourself in a recognizable doorway.

Elain answered the door, looking flushed. There was a high color on her cheeks and she was breathing hard. Over her shoulder, Nesta glared.

“Can we come in to rest for a bit?” Mor inquired.

Elain’s eyes fell on you and widened, along with the door. “Please come in,” she urged.

Nesta huffed away, back straight. Elain sat you down on a sofa before disappearing with Mor. Agitated, afraid that you would really be stuck in the House thereafter, you followed the smell of brewing to the kitchen.

Elain moved with certainty in what was clearly her personal space. The cabinets were filled with mason jars. Though most of them were still empty, some had herbs and flowers, probably preserved. Branches and stalks were drying on the counters. It smelled like a forest. Suddenly, you missed Helecine. IT seemed like a long time ago.

Mor looked at your expression and sighed, patting a stool at her side.

“How are you?” you asked Elain as she puttered at the stove.

She thought it over seriously. “I am coping,” she said after a while, flashing a small, wavering smile as she waved a hand at the room. “This helps.”

“And Nesta?”

“She has her books,” Elain replied.

“I did see a collection growing in the living room,” Mor said. “Cassian’s been bringing them?”

Elain glanced at the entryway, then lowered her voice. “He left us a bookseller’s catalog. Every three days or so, someone comes to ask if we have an order.”

Mor’s eyebrows lifted. “Ingenious. She would never have accepted an outright gift.” But she went unheard by Elain, who had returned to filling a pot with boiling water.

Elain returned with a couple of cups and served tea. “I’m not very familiar with medicine yet, and the plants here are a little different, but this should help calm you a bit.”

You nodded your thanks, cradling a steaming cup close to let it cool. Elain sat on the opposite seat, and asked tentatively, “What about you? Are you well?”

“I’m alright,” you replied automatically. It seemed you had been repeating the phrase over and over the past days, but you couldn’t come up with another answer. I’m alright. Not terrible. Not great. Just fine.

Mor studied you from the corner of her eye as you remained silent. After a minute, she got up. “Can I leave her here for a bit? I left something in a hurry.”

She left before either of you could reply. The space felt much larger in her absence, and you and Elain sat without speaking for some time, nursing your cups. She stood up after a few minutes, took a tin of biscuits that stirred a name in your head. You remembered the smell of butter hot and fresh slipping under the door invitingly. Your mouth remembered the taste.

You felt your vision waver as you chased a memory in your mind’s eye.

“What have you been doing?” Elain’s question derailed your thoughts, and you answered belatedly.

“I’ve been helping Mor at the market.”

“Is it true you swore to Rhysand?” Elain asked, when you nodded, she pursued, “But couldn’t you go home? You’re still…human.”

“Maybe she likes it here,” Nesta said, sweeping into the room. You and Elain watched as she poured the remaining water from the kettle into a mug and mix a dark powder from one of the jars in. The aroma that wafted in the room was deep and a little bitter. Nesta sat beside her sister, leveling a muted hostility at you. “They can be charming, if they want.”

You expected the coldness, the sharpness. You did just what their sister did. One day, you hoped to meet Feyre – you wanted to decide for yourself if it was all a trick. Like a mirror, you might find your reflection in her. It was always easier to pinpoint someone else’s faults and trace it back to yourself rather than dig through the ruins made by your own weaknesses.

“They won’t keep their promises, you know,” Nesta persisted.

“They’ve made no promises,” you answered her for the first time. “I’m owed nothing.”

“Then you’re stupider than I thought.”

Suddenly, you were as tired as she claimed you looked. Your restraint strained.

“Nesta,” Elain whispered intently. Her brows furrowed as she looked between you.

“Look at you, barely on your feet and already being worked to the bone.” If anything, Nesta’s voice was sharper, cutting like a knife. “Bending over backwards for a people not even your own.”

You try to be understanding, but the lines of Nesta’s face were unforgiving. A spool of anger unwound from inside you, lashing out in defense.

“Better this than sit day by day nursing my grievances, wishing for things that will never come back.”

Elain looked like she was about to cry. You regret your words immediately.

You put your cup back on the table and stood. “I’m sorry. Thank you for the tea.” Stiffly, you stood and made for the door. You’ll wait for Mor at the end of the street.

“I guess that shadowsinger is a much better charmer than the general, huh.” Though you tried to let the words come in one ear and out the other, it snagged somewhere in between, mangling its way though. Light flashed behind your eyes, and you stopped before the front door, holding out a hand to steady yourself.

“Maybe it’s easier to find a new family when you didn’t leave any behind,” Nesta drove home.

Pain lanced through you. A bird, a message, a crest. A castle crumbling down around your ears. Later, you’d remember the echoes of a long-drawn out scream, but it was muted under a soft bed of cold, white dust. Maybe ash, or snow. The world was a blank canvas, an endless night sky.

It was blessed reprieve.

Mor grounded you the next day, though she claimed it was she was swamped with reports. She kept asking what happened after she left, but if Feyre’s sisters had said nothing of your heated exchange, then neither would you. Instead, you tried to show you were taking better care of yourself, spending the day reading at the study while she kept an eye on you over her reports.

Everyone seemed to be watching you, even Amren, who was unexpectedly present at dinner. It made Azriel’s absence all the more potent, as if a world were tilted at an angle. You hadn’t seen hair or shadow of him for days.

Mor looked up at the corner of your eye. “Are you sure you still want to attend the market’s reopening tomorrow? Everyone will understand if you don’t.”

“I want to be there,” you said, attempting a small smile, but giving up when you realized they probably won’t be fooled by such things. Not that you were lying. You _were_ fine. You had slept long and deep for the first time in days, exhausted beyond dreams, and your body reveled in relief.

Your other pains, drawn into the surface by Nesta, would take perhaps a lifetime to heal. Which was fine, because they were easier to hide.

Cassian blocked your path as you were returning to your room.

“Elain asked me to give you this,” he said, proffering a small box toward you. You studied it in the dim light, trying to guess what it contained. “Is everything alright? She seemed unhappy…maybe even a little guilty.” 

He was prodding at the incident, trying to find clues. You shook your head. “Thank you for this.”

You excused yourself, knowing he wouldn’t stop you.

He didn’t.

It was jar of dried herbs. You wondered at first if it were tea, but the smell itself was pleasant enough that you placed it on your vanity like a pot of potpourri – which it might very well be. You knew nothing about plants, to be honest. You only knew that this one made the tension leave your shoulders, made your lungs breathe easier. There was something very human about the smell, like something from an apothecary, or a kitchen.

You were fishing through the flower buds and crackling leaves when you fished out a small white strip of paper filled with looping script.

_–I’m terribly sorry for the incident yesterday. It is difficult for Nesta to show care, but she does. Please do take care of yourself. Elain–_

You weighted the sincerity of it. Elain might very well believe her sister means well, but is that really the truth?

You considered putting the letter back, then decided you didn’t want anyone else knowing of the incident. You tore it into small pieces, and threw it out the window. 

A cheer went up the crowd as the last roll of iridescent blue cloth was hung over the columns of the market’s entryway. Mako and Miko jumped excitedly at your sides, having attached themselves there since Mor asked you not to tire yourself before the main event. Trays of food appeared out of the merchant’s stalls, mostly prepared by mothers and family members. You conjured up a smile for every thank you that came your way.

“Mom made pie!” Miko squealed, seeing their red-locks of their mother flash through the crowd. “Our favoritest pie!”

“Come _on_!” Mako said, pulling at your hand. “She said she made it extra special today.”

You relent, though you felt claustrophobic as the sisters pushed their way through the crowd to secure you a slice of what turned out to be a honey-topped pastry. It was filled with caramelized nuts, bursting in your mouth like an orchard. The girls beamed, guessing you liked it.

Mor stared at you from the crowd time and again, an inscrutable expression on her face, but as soon as you caught her eye, she’d smile, and return her attention to the next merchant. The surreptitious feeling of being watched only made you feel more trapped, and you began to shoulder your way toward the edge of the people while Miko and Mako were being roped into a game by their friends. 

A block away, not too far from Mor, but far enough from the hub of activity, you found a cozy spot by an alcove. A florist was set up beside it, and it smelled of gardens.

You couldn’t stop thinking of the future, a hopeless tangle of possibilities that could fall apart at the smallest mistake. You didn’t even know what was happening back home anymore. Had Lorelei been sworn in without problems? Who had she named king?

“Beautiful.” 

You looked up at a man leaning back against a column, then glanced pointedly at the flowers. “Yes,” you answered curtly.

To your consternation, he straightened and came closer. “I wasn’t talking about the flowers.”

You shut your eyes and swallowed a long-suffering sigh. In the House of Wind, the halls echoed in emptiness; here in the city, you could barely get a moment’s peace.

When you opened your eyes, he was still there, head cocked and a crooked smile on his lips as if he found something amusing about you. He was handsome in a way you had seen too many times before, and so evoked no emotion in you. You could only think how difficult it would be to shake him off.

“They say you came from the Winter Court,” he coaxed. “Why leave?”

“People wouldn’t leave me alone.”

He laughed blithely, and in one swift motion made to occupy the narrow space on the bench beside you. You refused to move hoping it would deter him, but finding he meant to squeeze himself in, you rose to give up the seat. Hissing when he blocked your way, you drove an elbow to his gut and stomped on his foot. He fell on the bench with a sound more surprised than pained, but kept a grip on your wrist, keeping you close. You couldn’t escape, pulled you down to his eye level so close you could see yourself reflected in his eyes. They seemed like glass; your reflection was in them. As you stared, a ringing began in your ears, and your vision began to darken. He didn’t move, but the expectation that emanated from him made you struggle.

“Let _go_.” You tugged again, and he did, frozen with more surprise than before.

“ _What are you_?”

“Pissed.”

The two of you regarded each other wordlessly, sizing each other up.

He broke the gaze first. You held your hands at your side as he stood, coiling upon yourself to swing a fist if he attempted to touch you. But he only bowed his head, surprising you with a low warning to your ear. “Don’t stray from Mor’s sight again.” 

The irritating charm was gone, replaced by a frightening seriousness. You stared at him, and he clicked his tongue, jerking his head toward the music. “I mean it. The next ones won’t be as charming as me.”

You moved slowly at first, looking over your shoulder twice to ensure he wasn’t going to try something else, but he only stood there until you were out of sight. You kept walking until a golden blur attached itself to your arm. “I swear, I look away for a second and every time–”

She’d meant to follow where you’d disappeared, but was delayed by some trouble that didn’t exist when she got there. You considered telling her about the stranger, but caught yourself. It was probably nothing. Even in Prythian, girls on their own apparently got hit on.

You and Mor returned to the House quite late, dragging your feet toward your rooms. The rest of the day had been uneventful, but it was some time before you could sneak away from the townspeople.

What happened next came without warning. You were turning the corner when Azriel turned to the same hall from the far end. The world seemed to press in, and you heard Mor as if from a distance when she clicked her tongue. “These Illyrians. Always getting into all sorts of scuffles.”

Azriel came to a standstill, seeming to fade into the shadows. He did look a little worse for wear, dark hair falling over his face, a slash across his cheek. You begged your heart to be quiet, even as you forced air in and out of your lungs in counted measures. The smell of blood was potent as a morbid perfume as you fixed your eye on his black clothes. New blood would shimmer like oil, dried blood would crust like earth, but you couldn’t see either. His hands, clenched at his sides, were bruised.

He breathed your name as you passed, barely a whisper, quieter than you’ve ever heard him.

 _Are you alright?_ You wanted to turn round, wanted to ask, but the words were curled into a stubborn ball on your throat, and before you knew it, you had turned the other corner, putting him out of sight.

_Too late._

You tried to put it out of your mind when you entered your room, focusing on the small routine tasks of getting ready for bed. But the jar of whitelock sat like an accusation on your night desk as you sat on the bed, running fingers through your hair to loosen the pins.

The brief encounter haunted you and not just because you had been surprised. The bruises on his knuckles told you he had been in a fight, and you had no doubts that blood had been spilled. He smelled of it. Why did you keep forgetting these people weren’t safe? Those hands couldn’t be innocent, regardless of how they had always been held out kindly to you, even though they had never strayed when you’d danced, even though they were so gentle on your hair when Amren’s box brought you to your knees.

Did he deserve compassion? Who were _you_ to judge? Your hands were no cleaner. In fact, they were dripping red, still fresh with blood.

 _It’s too late to do anything_ , a harsh voice whispered in your head. _Unless you want to go knocking on his door._

You didn’t owe Azriel anything, but it felt like the solace he’d given you before deserved something more than this pretense.

You lay back in bed and shut your eyes, counting your breaths, coaxing sleep.

_Nine-hundred ninety-nine._

_One thousand._

You sat up, helplessness threatening to spill out of your skin.

“I’ll give it to the wraiths,” you muttered, snatching the small round glass container and your dressing down, and sweeping out the room.

You couldn’t help it. If you couldn’t look past what Azriel did for his king, for his people, could you deserve the same forgiveness? If you saved your kingdom, couldn’t you be forgiven for the death of everyone who wasn’t Nacola that night?


End file.
